


Poker Face

by Cawaiiey



Series: The Card Shark and the Sniffer [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ALSO Jesse is referred to as Joel Morricone for the majority of this fic, Anal Sex, Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Creampies, Face-Fucking, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Other Piercings, SO first chapter today and then another whenever i finish it, Top Jesse McCree, Window Sex, also honeypot hanzo, and then i ended up writing over 20k, dick piercings, handjobs, i ended up having to split this into two chapters because christ, it was gonna be small, lotsa flirting, minor exhibitionism, no sex in the first chapter but there's tons of it in the second ;), please use condoms irl this is fictitious, poker scenes, punk!hanzo, riverboat!McCree, semi-public, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-24 01:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: “Shark, my ass. Man cleared out $60,000 at the first table he played at.”Hanzo shrugs, silently delighting in how Daniel sucks in a bracing breath at his nonchalance. Oh, he loves riling him up. Serves him right for calling him in on his day off. “So? That’s not entirely uncommon. Perhaps he’s just good at poker.”“He’s won almost $250 grand over the last four days.”Oh.This is going to be fun.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecatsred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecatsred/gifts).



> HEY HEY HEY it's been a WHIIIIIIILE. So, this fic was born from a prompt that my partner Kris (thecatsred on ao3) gave me and it just EXPLODED from there. It was basically "riverboat mccree getting jacked off under the table by hanzo" because riverboat mccree is daddy asf. SOOOO this was gonna be short and then. ended up being not. i've had a ton of fun writing this so far so i hope y'all enjoy it !! HAVE FUNNNNN!!

“This fucking bastard thinks he can waltz into whatever casino he want on the Strip like he  _ owns _ the place, plop his sorry ass down at a table, win  _ damn near every hand _ , and expect us  _ not _ to notice?!” 

Hanzo looks up from the file that his employer slid over to him, brows raising when he realizes he’s talking to him. He’s too busy perusing the information on his target to bother paying attention to his ranting and raving. With a huff, he sits up and crosses his arms over his chest.  _ Gods _ , this is the third time they’ve called him in this week alone to deal with yet  _ another _ card sharp. Hanzo’s getting sick of it. The dealers should be able to handle this on their own. It’s a part of their agreement that he only come in for more dire situations.

The only picture that accompanies the file of this ‘Joel Morricone’–  _ what an idiotic name _ – is a grainy black-and-white photo of a well-dressed man sporting a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. 

Hanzo highly doubts this constitutes as a ‘dire situation’. 

“What makes you so sure he’s not just a shark?” He asks politely. Regardless of whether or not he’s irritated with his boss calling him in for the third time this week, he did enjoy his job. Being a sniffer had it’s perks– like a hefty paycheck. Hanzo would rather not risk that by letting his annoyance show. 

Daniel snarls, face as red as if he’d been running a mile, and gestures angrily at the file on the desk. “Shark, my ass. Man cleared out $60,000 at the first table he played at.”

Hanzo shrugs, silently delighting in how Daniel sucks in a bracing breath at his nonchalance. Oh, he loves riling him up. Serves him right for calling him in on his day off. “So? That’s not entirely uncommon. Perhaps he’s just good at poker.” 

He doesn’t flinch when Daniel suddenly lunges towards the desk and jabs at Joel’s file with an accusatory finger. Clearly seething, his boss barely manages to hold onto a sliver of decorum as he speaks through clenched teeth. 

“He’s won almost $250 grand over the last four  _ days _ .” 

_ Oh _ . 

Hanzo cannot help but whistle in appreciation as he reaches forward and grabs at his target’s file once more. That little tidbit of information made this a  _ lot _ more interesting. While there were the occasional card sharks that ran the length of the Strip and then left with their big winnings, $250,000 in four days is a bit too high to be considered normal. It isn’t like a lucky hit at one of the slot machines. Poker is a game of skill and, by the look of things, Mr. Morricone is unnaturally skilled.

Or he’s playing the tables like a fiddle.

“Alright,” Hanzo says, cutting off Daniel in the middle of another rant he’d launched into while he was stuck in his thoughts. Something about calling Joel a ‘damned ingrate’, amongst other… colorful swears. Throwing the file on the table, he leans forward with elbows braced on his black slacks and grins wickedly at his boss. The prospect of a challenge lights a fire in him that he hasn’t felt in quite some time now.

“Which casino is he set to be at next?” 

This is going to be  _ fun _ . 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Hanzo clicks the ball of his tongue piercing against his teeth as he walks through the bustling casino area of the Aria. He ends up ducking and weaving through the thrall of bumbling tourists as he makes his way towards the poker tables. Despite how long he’s lived here and gone to the casinos, he’ll never get used to the perfume that they pump through the vents to mask the acrid scent of cigarette smoke. It’s almost as cloying as the clouds of nicotine wafting through the place. The people wandering the carpeted casino are all at varying levels of intoxication, even though it’s only nine in the evening now. He barely manages to dodge a woman who’s drunkenly stumbling and laughing like whatever her companion said is the funniest thing in the world. 

_ Tourists _ .

Hanzo rolls his eyes and continues walking, ignoring the throng of people around him, for the most part. Glancing to his left, he catches sight of where he’d be finding Mr. Morricone, if Daniel is correct with his information. After a quick call to the hotels he hadn’t hit yet, his boss had found out he’d checked in last night at the Aria. They said he’d paid with cash, the ballsy bastard. Hanzo wouldn’t say it out loud but he liked the man’s style- anyone that could make Daniel  _ that _ red-faced deserved a handshake rather than to be blacklisted from literally every hotel on the Strip.

A handshake isn’t what he is getting paid for, unfortunately. 

Hanzo scans the tables, searching intently for the tell-tale cowboy hat he’s seen in Joel’s file. They’re all mostly full, with only two or three having vacancies. A handful of dealers notice him and, despite one or two whose eyes bug out at the sight of him, quickly look away. They know what he’s here for. One sweep of the tables shows him nothing, two is the same, but the third time around he spies a well-dressed man sporting a wide-brimmed black hat with a dark red leather band wrapped around the base of it moseying over from the slot machines.  _ Ah _ , that’s has to be him. Every inch of him screams card sharp, from his fine clothes to his confident swagger. 

Hanzo takes a moment to let his eyes wander along the other man’s frame, roaming over the blue silk waistcoat fitted around his muscled chest, his dark red leather duster swaying with every swaggering step he takes, and those freshly pressed black slacks that make his already long legs look even longer. He glances up from the pair of cowboy boots Joel’s wearing to his face and freezes, eyes widening.  _ God _ . He had been expecting to find some sort of sleazy fifty year-old man with beady eyes and greying hair swindling the house out of its money. 

Not someone so incredibly attractive that Hanzo feels his breath catch in his throat.

Joel’s upper lip is topped with a finely groomed handlebar moustache, while just below his lower lip is a thatch of just as well-taken care of hair. The cut of his rugged jaw is decorated with five o’clock shadow, stubble that makes him look deliciously  _ dangerous _ . Hanzo’s always liked danger, and Morricone looks like a challenge he sorely wants to take on. Dragging his eyes along the curve of his craggy nose, Hanzo finds himself catching the gambler’s twinkling brown eyes. 

They bore into him for just a moment, enough for Joel to flick his eyes along Hanzo’s person and for one eyebrow, which is bisected by a scar run through it, to raise in question before he looks away. 

Hanzo doesn’t miss the way the gambler’s lips quirk up at the edges, nor how he saunters past a table with only one open seat to one that has more vacancies. 

It’s not as if he doesn’t understand what that means. Sure, it has been… several  _ long _ moments since he’s last been a part of the flirting game, and even longer since it’s been with someone as handsome as this stranger. He’s subtle, Hanzo will give him that, and a part of him– a very  _ loud _ part of him– wants to give in and play this game with him. It’s a pity that Joel is nothing more than a target for him to sniff out– perhaps, under different circumstances, he would’ve been able to find out just how nicely that moustache of his felt against his own goatee. He’ll lament the loss later, in private. For now… It’s showtime. 

Hanzo relaxes into his persona of an easygoing tourist, easing the knots that form in his stomach whenever he’s about to confront a target, and starts in the direction of the poker table. The dealer is already in the process of collecting the cards from the previous round when Hanzo stops in front of the unoccupied seat next to Joel. With a sure hand, he reaches up and taps the cowboy on his broad shoulder. There’s no surprise in Mr. Morricone’s eyes when he turns to face Hanzo, though there is a self-satisfied smile on those lips of his. Like he  _ knew _ why Hanzo is here, what he is here for…  _ Who _ he is here for. And while Joel isn’t incorrect in his silent assumption, he isn’t entirely right either. 

“Is this seat taken?” Hanzo asks over the musical trill of slot machines and tourist chatter assaulting his eardrums. He makes sure to arch one immaculate eyebrow and smirk at his target, to which he gets a hint of pearly-white teeth as Joel’s lips part into a wider smile. 

Up close is even more breathtaking than far away– he watches the technicolor lights of the casino reflect off of Morricone’s half-lidded amber eyes that are boring into him relentlessly. The surge of desire in his midsection makes his pulse jump, especially when Joel rakes his eyes down his form in a lascivious way. Normally, he’d object to being ogled like this, but there’s something different about Morricone. Even knowing that this man is his target does nothing to quell the damn near palpable attraction he had towards him.

And then he opened his mouth and that attraction went from a low simmer in his gut to a boiling heat. 

“Sure ain’t, darlin’, and I’d be a right fool to turn down the chance to sit next to the most gorgeous fella in Vegas,” Joel practically purrs out, eyes locked onto Hanzo’s. He pats the beige seat next to him expectantly. Hanzo takes the invitation for what it’s worth and slides the chair out. With all the grace of a man who is obviously comfortable in a gambling environment, he slides into his vinyl-covered seat. 

He makes sure to intentionally bump his thigh against Morricone’s before he crosses his legs at the ankle. The action certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by his target, who not-so-subtly spreads his legs a bit wider, just to press their thighs together. The warmth of his skin is palpable even through two layers of fabric. Hanzo reminds himself that he’s on the job right now, even though he doesn’t make a move to separate himself from Joel. 

There’s no harm in a bit of casual flirting, right? Perhaps it will help. If he gets Morricone to let down his guard, he can observe him more easily, figure out how he’s cheating. With plausible evidence to present to his boss, they can get Morricone blacklisted and he can wash his hands of this situation. This is just to not arouse any suspicions.

_ Keep telling yourself that _ , his subconscious whispers in his ear, though he quashes the thought just as soon as it arises. He’s glad he does so, because Joel is reaching up and taking his hat off while extending the other hand towards Hanzo. He finds he quite likes the other man’s tawny brown locks slicked back on his head, though a few strands are out of place from where his hat had been. Part of him wants to reach forward and fix his hair (to bury his hands in it while he pulls Joel forward into a searing kiss) but he knows better than to overstep his boundaries and give into temptation like that.  _ Target _ , he reminds himself silently,  _ he’s a target _ .  

“Name’s Joel Morricone,” he says smoothly, pressing his cap to his chest and giving Hanzo a sly wink, an’ to whom do I owe the pleasure of playin’ with this fine evenin’?” 

“Hanzo. My name is Hanzo Shimada.”

Hanzo smiles at the gambler while he reaches his hand forward to take Joel’s in a firm grip and is surprised when the other man doesn’t shake his hand. Rather, he turns their joined hands and, with his eyes still locked on Hanzo’s, leans down to press his warm lips against the back of Hanzo’s. As if he’s a southern gentleman courting him.  _ Target, he’s a target, he’s the target _ , Hanzo repeats in his head like a mantra, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. 

Morricone winks and the corners of his lips, which are still pressed sweetly against Hanzo’s hand, quirk up into a smirk. 

Hanzo’s mouth falls open as Joel pulls away from his hand, a smile still gracing his ridiculously handsome features. This is truly unfair. He is such a charming man, with looks to rival even models (Hanzo wouldn’t have been shocked to find someone with his looks on the stage at a Chippendales show), so why did he have to be some cheat? Hanzo barely manages to hold in a sigh that’s threatening to escape him.  _ Gods _ . Dick is less important than work. He  _ knows _ that, and yet… here he is, still lamenting over it. 

“Well, Hanzo, the pleasure is all mine to have y’with me tonight,” Joel says smoothly, rubbing a calloused thumb across the back of Hanzo’s hand, which is still warm from his lips. “Reckon yer gon’ give me a run for my money. Y’look like quite the gambling man.”

Hanzo is nothing of the sort. In truth, he hates gambling outside of what he needs to do as a sniffer. Living in Vegas for so long and seeing people wasting their money on tables and slots only to walk away without much to show for it has completely taken the appeal out of gambling. Hanzo would much rather spend his time at home or out with his friends and family. Like he was  _ supposed _ to be doing today, before Daniel called him in. 

It isn’t all that bad, considering his target is the handsome and charming man before him. There are worse people to spend the evening with, although he already knows how the night will end.

“Actually,” Hanzo starts, extricating his hand from Morricone’s slight grip and trying to ignore how his skin tingles from where they’d touched, “I must confess, I’m not much of a gambler. But when you are in Vegas, you must partake in the local culture.” He knows how to play the part when it comes to these things. This isn’t his first job, and it certainly won’t be his last. 

Joel grins at that, wide enough that the laugh lines bracketing his mouth and the corners of his eyes deepen. It makes him look much warmer, softer. Hanzo catches himself before he melts at the sight of him. 

_ Target, target, target _ . 

He shifts in his seat to face the dealer, who he knows recognizes him. Every dealer at the casinos Daniel oversees know the faces of their sniffers, especially since the presence of one usually means business. The intensity of Morricone’s brilliant brown eyes still lingers in the back of his mind, as does the heat of his body that Hanzo can still feel with their thighs pressed together. He’s dizzy from more than just the stifling air of the casino. 

Perhaps he should’ve approached Joel with more of a serious demeanor. But it’s far too late for him to change his methods now. He’s made his bed and he’ll have to lie in it, no matter the consequences. 

The dealer– whose name is Dimitri, if his name tag is anything to go off of– turns to the first person on his left and asks how many chips he’s buying.  _ And so it begins _ . Hanzo shifts to pull his wallet out of his pocket and produce the few hundreds that Daniel had given him as allowance for this job. It wouldn’t matter how much cash he used at the table– anything he spends or wins goes back to the house at the end of the day. He’s careful not to move his leg from its comfortable position pressed against Joel’s. It’s only for the express purpose of getting his target to let his guard down around Hanzo and not for any other reason.

Dimitri trades cash for chips with the other three individuals at the table– all of them purchasing three hundred dollars worth of chips– and Hanzo is about to pull his crisp notes out of his wallet when Joel reaches his hand forward with a roll of bills held firmly in his grasp.

“There’s a grand there. Can ya split the chips between myself and my friend Hanzo here?” 

_ What _ . 

Hanzo whips his head up and turns to look at Morricone, mouth open and brows drawn together. Dimitri looks a bit uncomfortable but complies, pushing stacks upon stacks of chips over to the two of them. Joel doesn’t bat an eye as he scoops them closer and arranges them off to the side. Hanzo swallows quietly and sweeps his chips closer, keeping a careful eye on his target as he does so.  _ What is he doing? _ Is this some kind of power play that he’s not familiar with? Never before has he seen a target use their money on someone else playing with them. Most of the time these card sharps preferred to keep their winnings close, greedy bastards that they are. Morricone purchasing his chips is altogether unexpected but… certainly not unpleasant. 

“Don’t worry about it, sugar,” Joel says quietly, just loud enough for Hanzo to hear, “I’m feelin’ generous today.” 

Hanzo turns his head to look at Joel, who’s leaning on his folded arms, watching Dimitri shuffle the deck. He seems hyper-focused, eyes locked on the rapidly moving cards. Hanzo keeps his own eyes on Joel’s, watching for the tell-tale flick that those who count cards do. Only slightly strained, he asks,“are you saying you _ don’t _ buy in for every stranger you meet?” 

Joel huffs out a soft chuckle, flicking his eyes from the dealer to Hanzo, and grins.  _ Oh _ . Attraction like lightning runs through him, electrifying and dizzying in its intensity. “Only the pretty ones. And, honey, yer the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He winks at him as punctuation to his sentence. Heat surges through Hanzo’s body, insistent and not altogether unpleasant. He finds himself quickly turning around to hide his burning face from Morricone, as realization settles in the pit of his stomach. 

He’s  _ blushing _ . He’s a grown man and this handsome card sharp got him to  _ blush _ just by calling him pretty. 

Hanzo is mortified at his own behavior, at Morricone’s intense flirting and how a part of him whispers in his ear about how he could have a little fun with Joel before he turns him over to security. He stifles the voice–  _ target, target, target, he’s a target,  _ he reminds himself– and turns to face Dimitri again. By this point, he’s finished shuffling and is collecting everyone’s bets. Morricone has matched the big blind while he wasn’t looking, and the rest of the table has done the same. Hanzo straightens up in his seat, putting on airs as though he isn’t warring his sense of duty against his attraction to Joel inside, and pushes fifty dollars worth of chips towards the center. 

Dimitri deals out two cards to each person. Hanzo chances a glance over at Joel, watching as he situates the cards in front of him and bends them to get a look at their values. Apparently they’re to his liking, as his lips pull into a grin and he lets his cards lay flat again. Hanzo peeks at his own cards, which are a six of hearts and a nine of spades, before he leaves them be. Dimitri places the deck on the table and flips over the top three cards– a five of hearts, a jack of diamonds, and a two of clubs. 

The flop round begins. 

The first player checks, looking slightly irritated as he stares at the upcards. Hanzo has to hold back a snort at that. Not every hand can be good. The next player mumbles, “bet,” and slides over an additional $50 worth of chips into the pot. Third player calls that bet. Hanzo does the same– after all, it’s not his money that he’s playing with right now, so it doesn’t matter to him whether or not he loses. Last, but certainly not least, is Morricone. Hanzo’s ears perk up as Joel drums his fingers against the table for a moment before he says, “raise,” and pushes a few chips over totaling $100. 

_ Big bet _ , Hanzo notes, though he stays quiet while he slides an additional $50 chip forward. The other three players fidget but match the bet, as per the rules of poker. The pot totals $750 now– meager for a big casino poker table, but relatively large for only five players. Dimitri flips the next card on the deck over, revealing a six of diamonds. The first player folds, crossing his arms angrily over his chest and silently seething while the rest of the round progresses. The second player checks, eyes darting nervously across the board while his fingers tap out a rhythm on the table. The man to Hanzo’s right pushes another $50 worth of chips forward, looking calmer than anyone else at the table– save for Joel, of course. Hanzo matches the bet, not even really thinking about his own cards, and listens for Morricone’s own bet. 

“Raise.”

He pushes another $100 to the center without hesitation. 

Another big wager, but not an overly aggressive move. Just enough to get the two remaining players squirming in their seats as they hesitantly match the bid. Dimitri flips over the next board card, which is a king of spades. Hanzo wants to look at Joel, to see what he’s thinking, but manages not to, for the moment. He didn’t want to arouse the other man’s suspicions by being overly observant of his playing style. Plus, constantly looking at him could come across as ogling (though he’s… already done that– not that Joel needs to know) and Hanzo did  _ not _ need his target to think he is any more interested in him than he’s already shown. 

The final betting round starts with the first player putting the minimum bet forward, sheepish in how he slides across a meager $25 chip across the table into the pot. The next player is more confident in his bet, as he raises and pushes $100 worth of chips across the table into the pot. That gets him a curse from his friend, who adds another $75 to his pile to even out the bet. Hanzo matches his bid, forgetting entirely about the value of his cards, and tilts his head to watch Morricone out of the corner of his eye.

Joel is pushing two chips worth $50 a piece over already, looking as calm and confident as can be. Hanzo suppresses a laugh and a roll of his eyes. Of course he’s not worried in the slightest. A cheat such as himself– Morricone’s eyes suddenly lock onto Hanzo’s, catching him in the act of watching him, and he stares, mortified, as his target graces him with a self-satisfied smirk and a wink. Any train of thought he’s on quickly derails.

_ Oh _ . 

Hanzo jerks in his seat and turns to face Dimitri, cheeks burning. Embarrassment surges through his veins, white-hot and insistent, roiling in the pit of his stomach. He’s been caught. Gods, he never slips up like this. All of his previous targets were none the wiser when he’d sat down to play with them, until security would come to seize them and take them to the back to finish blacklisting them. Shame sends icy tendrils through him as he realizes how his original approach should’ve been more cold, calculative, less friendly. Less  _ flirty _ . He’s let his attraction to Joel get the best of him. This should be like any other target. It  _ needs _ to be like any other target. 

Dimitri speaks, piercing Hanzo’s haywire thoughts. “Alright, mates, cards up.”

The two men to Hanzo’s right flip their cards immediately. One has an ace of clubs and a four of diamonds. The other man reveals a queen of hearts and an eight of the same suit. The one with the queen card curses but laughs good-naturedly as he shoves his friend’s shoulder. They both seem to be betting on having the highest card as opposed to going for a pair. Hanzo flips his own cards over, letting the table see his six of hearts and nine of spades that he had honestly completely forgotten about. Joel is the focus of his attention right now, though he fears that may be for the wrong reasons. 

“Damn it,” the man with the ace card grumbles when he sees his cards. One pair beats out high card, of course. Despite himself, he does feel a tiny thrill in his midsection at knowing he beat someone, even if it was only marginally so. Although, he already knows who’ll win the round. Said person is sitting to the left of him, and, Hanzo finds as he turns his head to look at Joel, is wearing a smirk and eyeing Hanzo up and down with a critical, appreciative eye. He meets his gaze but manages to not look away like last time. Despite the frantic beating of his heart against his rib cage, he stands his ground and watches his target with an eye equally as critical. 

And equally as appreciative too, if he admits it to himself. 

Morricone hums, drumming the fingers of one hand against the green felt of the poker table while the other hand casually reaches for his two cards. With a gentle twist of his wrist, he flips over one card– 

_ Two of diamonds _ .

–and then the next– 

_ Five of clubs _ . 

–before he raises his arms above his head and stretches like a languid cat. The smirk on his lips grows into a grin that he wears for the table but that is wholly directed at Hanzo, if the cant of his head and the flick of his eyes is anything to go by. Unfortunately for him, Hanzo is far too concerned with Morricone’s cards to pay a lick of attention to the man himself. 

With brows furrowed, he stares at the two pieces of cardstock.  _ Two of diamonds, five of clubs _ . It’s a two pair, which means he wins the hand, which isn’t wholly surprising. Hanzo had been expecting it. What  _ is _ surprising is the fact that Hanzo didn’t see Joel cheat at all. There’s no indication of him slipping a card out from his sleeve, or of tampering with them at all. He watched him flip the cards slow and careful– he had no chance to switch them out with others, right? Unless he’d done so while Hanzo wasn’t looking. And, even then, wouldn’t he have won by much more than a two pair? Usually they gave themselves away by not only winning but blowing the competition out of the water with straights and flushes and full houses. For Joel to win by only a mere margin is surprising, especially considering Hanzo didn’t see him cheat. 

Okay. Well, everyone got lucky every now and then. Perhaps he just hasn’t shown his true colors yet.

“You’re the winner this round, mate,” Dimitri says, pushing the chips from the pot over to Morricone. His target happily sweeps them into his bank, looking calm and collected but smug over his winnings. Hanzo barely suppresses a roll of his eyes as he moves to face Dimitri once more, considering the cards are being collected and shuffled once more. He hears more than sees Joel shift next to him before the other man is suddenly far closer to him than he reasonably should be. Hanzo doesn’t lean away. 

“Good hand, honey,” Morricone says softly, only loud enough for him to hear. “Barely won that one.” 

“You  _ did  _ say you were feeling lucky, Joel,” Hanzo responds casually, pretending to watch Dimitri with interest even though all his attention is elsewhere.

That gets him a sonorous chuckle in response, deep and rolling out of his target’s chest like thunder. It washes over him, and he quietly delights in it. Hanzo shakes his head a bit, a bitter taste in the back of his mouth at the thought that someone so charming is really a crook. However, he doesn’t get the vibe off of Morricone that he usually does with targets. He likely hasn’t shown his true colors yet. The last hand was won by a hair– Hanzo knows that poker is part skill, part luck. From what he just saw, he can safely presume that Joel won the last hand without any cheap tricks. Not that that would be the case for all hands, he’s sure of it. He’s sure to slip up enough for Hanzo to catch him at some point during the night.

“Good game, man,” one of the other players says– the one with the ace card– as he pushes his chips towards Dimitri. “Wish we could play more but my friend here is a sore loser and doesn’t wanna risk losing anymore cash, y’know?” 

The very first player that folded early on in the round puffs his cheeks out in anger. Stubborn as an ox, it looks like. He understands– there are quite a few people in his life that fit that description. Dimitri is cashing them out in the meantime. Hanzo bites the inside of his cheek, wondering how he is supposed to keep investigating Morricone and his cheating if they aren’t playing at all. He has half a mind to turn to Joel and ask if he’d like to move to another table when a short man wearing a tacky “I <3 VEGAS” shirt comes up to them and slides into the spot right next to him. The stranger doesn’t pay Hanzo a lick of attention as he leans forward and locks eyes with Joel right beside him.

“Morricone, you bastard,” he snarls in a thick East coast accent,“I’m here for a rematch.” He slams his hand down on the poker table for emphasis, toppling one of Joel’s chip towers with the action. So, it seems the cheat made some enemies during his tour of the Strip. Enemies with horrible taste in shirts, but enemies nonetheless. Hanzo turns his head to look at Joel, anticipation sitting low and insistent in his midsection. 

“Howdy,” Morricone says, dragging out the word for far longer than necessary as he snaps his fingers a few times. There’s confusion evident in the furrow between his brows, though he doesn’t let it show any more than that. His smile is easy and disarming, though Hanzo can tell that he’s stalling as he tries in vain to remember the name of the stranger that’s sitting with them now. He seems to realize it too, as he slams his other hand down on the table and points an accusatory finger at Joel. 

A vein in his forehead bulges as he practically spits his words at Morricone. “You beat me outta 25 grand and you can’t even remember my damn  _ name?! _ ”

Joel waves a hand dismissively at him, eyes averted even as he nervously drums his fingers against the table. Hanzo stares at his target, swallowing laughter that tickles the back of his throat. It threatens to bubble out of him despite the situation that he’s found himself in the middle of. Honestly, this is just more of a case against Morricone, and it’s something he  _ should _ be noting. But seeing the charming, silver-tongued fox trip over his words and cave a bit under pressure is surprisingly… endearing, if he’s being honest. 

_ I wonder how he’d react if I–  _

Hanzo stops that train of thought before it can get started, almost physically shaking his head to derail it. No. No, bad Hanzo. He’s here for a reason.  _ That _ is not the reason. Joel is a target. Nothing more, even if Hanzo so badly wants a little more than to just put the man on the blacklist. 

He tunes back in to the heated conversation going on between the other two men at the table. If he’s biting the inside of his cheek with more force than necessary to keep his thoughts out of the gutter, then no one needs to know. 

“–Frank, calm down now. Sure y’don’t wanna just sit down and play a friendly game of poker? C’mon, my friend Hanzo here and I are playin’ some light hands, nothin’ big–”

The stranger– Frank, if Hanzo heard correctly– shakes his head at Joel, face redder than it had been before. He pulls out his wallet from his back pocket and opens the bulging leather trifold to dig out a truly  _ obscene _ amount of $100 dollar bills.  _ Gods _ , even Dimitri’s eyes bug out at the sight of them. Hanzo chances a glance over at Morricone and sees him scowling, arms crossed over his chest. It’s not a fitting look on him, Hanzo decides, especially since the set of his jaw is so  _ resigned _ . Like he knows there’s no getting out of this, loathe as he seems to be about that. 

“Sir,” Dimitri starts, brows drawn together, and all three of them turn to face the dealer simultaneously– Hanzo with interest, Joel with annoyance, and Frank with irritation. “Are you sure you want to buy ten thousand dollars worth of chips?” 

_ Oh. My. God.  _

This man– and others like him, surely– is probably the reason why Morricone was able to win so much money the past few days. They came in with expectations of winning and left thousands of dollars poorer, all due to a clever cheat. Hanzo can only guess how much money this character had come to Vegas with, and he’d lost 25 grand to Joel already. His balding hair and cheap tourist shirt are starkly contrasted by the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist and the pressed slacks he’s got on. Hanzo chances a glance down at the other man’s shoes and raises a brow at the expensive, supple leather of his Oxfords.  _ Looks like even after all that he has cash to spare _ , he thinks to himself, bemused. The shirt is an odd choice but he isn’t one to criticize another’s fashion preferences– at least, not out loud.

Frank, with a crazed glint to his beady eyes, looks Dimitri dead in the eyes and nods.

Next to him, he hears Joel sigh heavily and shift in his seat.  _ Is he taking the bait?  _ Hanzo turns his head just in time to see his target pulling a money clip out of his back pocket. If he thought that Frank had an obscene amount of hundreds, then Morricone’s amount of bills is downright ludicrous. The thin metal stretched around the bulging wad of cash looks ready to snap in half. He can only guess how much his target has in that stack alone, as he only fishes out maybe a tenth of the bills he has there, if not less. 

“ _ For the love of _ ,” Morricone mutters under his breath before plastering a big, obviously fake smile across his face. He begrudgingly hands Dimitri his roll of bills and says, with more than enough irritation dripping off his words, “I’ll take ten grand too, if y’don’t mind, partner.” 

_ He’s taking the bait _ .

Well, not  _ taking _ it, per se, because Hanzo knows Morricone will cheat his way out of this situation. But he seems annoyed, more so than that of a cheat who knows they’ll win the coming hand no matter what.  _ Curious _ . Hanzo writes it off as the other man being a good actor on top of the rest of what makes up the mysterious Joel Morricone– charming, silver-tongued, handsome bastard that he is. 

While Dimitri hesitantly passes out chips to both Frank and Joel, Hanzo sits back in his seat. As much as he dislikes having to, he’s going to sit this one out. These two are playing with money that Hanzo couldn’t even fathom betting so easily.  _ How am I going to watch Joel during this hand? _ , he thinks to himself, lips pursed. So caught up in his thoughts, he almost doesn’t notice Morricone tapping his shoulder. 

“Mmm?” Hanzo hums, turning his head to face Joel.

His target looks… oddly nervous. As much as he wants to tamp the thought down, seeing his moustache wiggle just the slightest bit and the way his teeth sink into his lower lip, he can’t help but think Joel is  _ endearing _ like this. Morricone reaches a hand up and takes his hat off, revealing a head of well-groomed chestnut locks slicked back against his head. His hair looks delightfully soft and Hanzo’s hands  _ itch _ to bury themselves in the strands and to pull him close and– 

How many thought trains is he going to have to derail today? 

“Honey,” Joel mumbles, only loud enough for Hanzo to hear, “y’don’t mind waitin’ fer me to finish this hand, right? Y’ain’t gonna leave lil’ ol me here all alone?” 

Hanzo flushes just the slightest bit at the pet name. He’s not used to… those… as much as he likes them. And he likes them even more when they’re said to him in that low, sweet, whiskey-smooth voice of Morricone’s.  _ Leave him? _ Hanzo shakes his head at that, which gets him a happy smile from his target, creases forming at the corners of his eyes with the expression. Loathe as he is to admit it, his heart skips a beat at the sight. 

“N-No, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Hanzo replies, just as low-pitched as Joel’s voice is, “I was actually hoping to watch you, if that is alright.” Morricone’s smile grows into a grin while he places his hat back on his head. There’s a glint to those amber eyes of his. They drag along his face, lingering on his lips, then up to his eyes. Hanzo feels a spark in the pit of his stomach that shoots through him like lightning– and  _ Gods _ this is harder than he thought it would be to focus and be professional. There’s just… something about Joel that draws him in, makes him forget about his responsibilities. It’s dangerous.  _ He’s _ dangerous. 

Hanzo bites his lip.  _ He’s always liked danger _ . 

“Oh darlin’, I’d be insulted if you didn’t.” Joel purrs sweetly at him, which yanks him out of his thoughts and has his insides twisting into a pretzel shape. He turns to face Dimitri completely, but not before tipping his hat at Hanzo and gracing him with a wink. He  _ burns _ . The higher powers must be laughing at him right about now, for presenting someone like Joel to him only for his main objective to be turning the man in. Daniel better pay him extra for blacklisting someone so unfairly attractive that he’s pretty sure he has a reasonable chance with, if not for the whole ‘this is your target’ thing.

While they’d been flirting (which, Hanzo knows he’s doing, despite knowing he  _ shouldn’t _ ), Dimitri had divvied out their chips and is now quietly waiting for attention back on him before the betting round begins. Hanzo glances at Frank first, whose jaw is quite clearly clenched, and Morricone second. His target looks more serious than he’d been the entire time Hanzo has been observing him. It’s… quite an attractive look on him.  _ Damn you _ , Hanzo thinks to himself, squirming in his seat just the slightest bit. For the first time this night, he’s glad Joel isn’t paying attention to him. Having such a look directed his way could only mean trouble.

The dealer chances a look between both men, waiting for just another moment, before he gestures for Frank to start the betting. Without an ounce of hesitation, he slides over enough chips to equal a grand. Considering the amount of money on the table right now, that is a mere sliver of what could be bet. Joel matches the wager in kind, lips pursed. Hanzo keeps his eyes on his target, despite no cards coming into play yet.

That changes as Dimitri quickly shuffles the deck and deals out two cards to both players. Morricone situates them in front of him in their dedicated spot then, with a glance at Hanzo and a soft smile, lifts the corner of both of them. Joel nods at their values appreciatively, bisected brow arching just the slightest bit. With a smile, he lets them lay flat and sits back in his seat. He spreads his legs and drums his fingers against the felt-covered tabletop, relaxing into the plush red leather of his seat and putting on airs of confidence that Hanzo hasn’t seen from him yet. And, as much as he likes keeping his eyes on his target, he hears Dimitri flip over the three board cards, so he turns his head to see their values. 

Four of diamonds, jack of clubs, and a nine of spades. 

There’s nothing substantial about the board that would warrant any impressive betting this round. That’s likely why Frank only pushes another grand in chips forward. Hanzo flicks his gaze back over to Morricone, anxious to see what he’ll bet. Surprisingly, his target hesitates, but only for a moment. His expression is calm and collected as he taps his index finger twice on the table and says, “Raise,” before pushing $2,500 in chips across the table. 

And  _ that’s _ the confidence that Hanzo had been looking for last game. Those piddly raises of $50 and $25 are nothing compared to pushing over double the amount that Frank had into the pot. The wager has Morricone’s opponent looking a bit antsy, but mostly furious, as he practically throws the required amount of chips forward to match the bet. Hanzo keeps his eyes on Joel, watching him intently. He must’ve noticed, as his target flicks his gaze over to Hanzo’s and graces him with soft, genuine smile. Despite knowing he should be less personable with Morricone, he returns the smile with one of his own. It must be a trick of the light that makes it seem like Joel’s cheeks darken as he looks away from Hanzo and back at the cards on the board.

With the second betting round over, Dimitri flips over the fourth board card. Hanzo watches with bated breath as an eight of diamonds is revealed.  _ Interesting.  _ Two cards of the same suit on the table could bode well– if either Morricone or Frank has the same two in their deck, they had the potential to play a flush, which could only be beaten by a handful of other hands. With $7,000 in the pot so far, the stakes are high, and could only get higher, considering the minimum bet per round is a grand. 

Hanzo tilts his head so he can watch Frank for just a moment, long enough for the short, balding man to slide a tall stack of poker chips across the table while he calls his wager out for them to hear. “Two thousand,” he declares with a side-eyed glance directed at Morricone. The smug air about him is ridiculously irritating. He’s someone that Hanzo would expect to be a cheat, what with his greedy eyes and the way he acts like he’s already won. If he had been called in to deal with someone like  _ him _ , he’s sure he would be enjoying this night far less. 

He turns to look at Joel now, who is just as calm as he was last betting round. His target doesn’t hesitate this time as he pushes a bet equivalent to Frank’s to the center of the table. Hanzo can only guess how irritated the other man looks right now– not that he’s even paying much attention to him right now. All of his focus is on Morricone, who knows it. Those amber eyes of his lock onto Hanzo’s, catching his gaze while he, again, graces him with a smile. This one is just as soft and sweet as the last. Just like then, he melts a bit, and gives Joel a smile of his own in return. With that, Morricone turns back to face the dealer with features schooled and expression carefully flat. 

Dimitri looks between the two of them, waiting for either to put more of a bet forward, and, with neither saying a word, goes to flip the next card over. With a twist of his hand, he reveals the last board card. 

Surprisingly enough, it’s a six of diamonds. 

_ That _ makes this game a lot more interesting. With three cards on the board that are all the same suit, that drives the chances for a flush up much higher. Hanzo wonders briefly what Morricone’s hole cards are for him to act so calmly during the betting rounds. Then again, he has no reason to worry when he’s obviously going to win. It wouldn’t matter what was on the table in the end. Somehow, someway, Joel will win. And Hanzo is determined to use his observations from this game to find out  _ how _ – hence why he’s rarely taken his eyes off his target this entire time. Well… that, and because Morricone is the most attractive man he’s ever seen and to not appreciate him while he can would be a  _ crime _ . 

Frank throws his bet into the pile before Dimitri can even gesture for them to start the fourth and final betting round. With a barely restrained smile on his face, he pushes over a massive stack of chips and declares, “Three thousand,” as his wager. 

Now  _ that _ is aggressive. 

Three grand as the first bet of the final betting round, with only forty-five hundred in both of their banks, is a power play and Hanzo knows it. He finds himself tensing up, back straightening while he worries his lower lip between his teeth. He  _ knows _ Joel will win but… there’s a lot of money on the table, more than he could ever think of gambling, and his target hasn’t said anything in the long moments following Frank’s bet and  _ what does that mean, maybe he’s got a worse hand, but how–  _

Hanzo has to stop himself from jumping in his seat when he feels something warm press against the small of his back. 

He whips his head around to look at Joel, hoping to any Gods out there that it’s  _ his _ hand and not Frank’s, and is delighted to find that it is. Wait. No, not delighted, he shouldn’t be happy about–  _ oh _ . Morricone’s thumb rubs small circles into his skin through the shirt, soothing and distracting.  _ Very _ distracting. Hanzo bites down into the skin of his lower lip harder than before, feeling himself melt a bit into the chair. Joel’s hand doesn’t move, even as he pushes over all of the chips he has in his bank.

“All in, sir,” Morricone says, voice low and smoky and calm and delicious.  _ Biggest bet _ , for obvious reasons. Dimitri reaches out and scoops the chips into the pot. Hanzo can practically hear Frank gritting his teeth next to him. Must be irritating to not only lose a quarter of a hundred thousand to a cheat once, but to be made a fool by the same cheat betting more than you in the final round so that you’re forced to bet the same amount must be  _ infuriating _ . 

Frank shoves the remainder of his chips forward, the sound of plastic hitting plastic practically cacophonous at their otherwise silent poker table. Hanzo hears a snort to his left, which must be from Morricone. He turns his head to catch the tail end of his amused expression, just as it morphs from that to something more serious. More… concerned? 

What in the hell does Joel need to be worried about? 

Despite how relaxed he felt with his target’s hand warm and heavy and  _ entirely welcome _ on his back, he tenses. Is he bluffing? Does he actually have a bad hand?  _ Is he about to lose? _

Hanzo figures if he lost then at least it would disprove the cheat theory. He’d still have more than enough money from the past four days. And it wouldn’t be frowned upon if Hanzo so happened to find his way to his room and– 

_ Enough _ , he chastises himself, shifting in his seat and moving backwards just a bit so Morricone’s hand is basically trapped between Hanzo’s back and the chair. Those thoughts are entirely too raunchy to have right now. He’d entertain them if and only if Joel lost this hand.  _ Yeah right _ , Hanzo thinks, suppressing a sigh,  _ I’ll be hoping for an excuse to bed him for the rest of the night and I know it _ . Morricone’s thumb is still rubbing soothing circles against his skin. At least he still has this, for the moment. 

“Cards up,” Dimitri says to the both of them. There’s a moment of silence at the table before one of them makes a move.

Frank flips his cards over first. Hanzo turns his head to look at his target’s opponent, eager to see exactly what the shorter man has in his hand. With way more force than necessary, Frank turns each piece of cardstock over. 

He has a two of diamonds and a queen of diamonds. 

_ A flush _ . 

Hanzo eyebrows raise at that. A flush can only be beaten by four other better hands and, from the looks of the board cards, a full house and four of a kind are out of the question, as is a royal flush. The only thing that could save Morricone now is a straight flush, and the chances of that happening are slim to none. And Frank seems to know that, if his quiet yet triumphant chuckling is anything to go by. Hanzo shakes his head and turns to look at Morricone instead, who is drumming the fingers of his unoccupied hand against the table.  _ Is he nervous? _ He chances a look up at his face.

Joel’s eyes are shining and his lips are curled into the smallest, most self-satisfied smile Hanzo has seen on him yet. Blinking, he stares at the other man for a long moment.  _ What does that expression mean? _

Without being prompted, Morricone languidly drags his fingers along the felt-covered table to his hole cards. His nimble fingers slowly flip over the first card he has– 

_ A five of diamonds _ . 

–and the next– 

_ A seven of diamonds _ . 

Holy shit. 

That’s a straight flush. 

A deafening quiet falls over the poker table. Even the sound of slot machines is distant. Hanzo’s mouth falls open. 

_ A straight flush _ . 

The odds of getting a straight flush are extremely low– less than one percent. And yet, here he is, sitting there with one hand  _ still  _ on Hanzo’s back and the other stroking his facial hair. That smile that he’d been sporting a second ago grows into a grin. 

Dimitri is the first of the three of them to finally react to Morricone’s winning hand. He clears his throat and moves to push the chips in the pot towards him, looking incredibly nervous. “You’ve won this rou–”

“ _ You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!! _ ”

The shout to his right, accompanied by the loud crash of fists hitting the table, has Hanzo almost shooting out of his seat. The only thing that keeps him seated is Joel’s hand on his back, which is now incredibly tense against him. He whips his head around to catch sight of an  _ extremely _ pissed Frank, looking at the two of them with crazed eyes. There’s practically foam around his mouth with how he’s snarling at them like a rabid dog. Hanzo has half a mind to reach for his phone and alert security of the situation but, with a glance Dimitri’s way, he sees he’s already doing so with a hand creeping beneath the poker table. 

Frank, completely ignoring Hanzo, leans over him to point one fat finger in Morricone’s face. Joel’s expression is relatively calm for someone who’s being accosted like this. The only thing that belies his nervousness is the tautness of his fingers against Hanzo’s back. 

“You fucking  _ bastard _ , how in the  _ Hell _ could I lose to you  _ again?! _ Fucking–” He cuts himself off and shoves himself away from the table, his chair clattering to the ground as he stalks around Hanzo’s seat and directly to Joel. “I’m gonna kick your ass right now, you smug son of a bitch.” Frank reaches for the lapels on Morricone’s duster, rage in his eyes and the clench of his jaw and the throbbing of one unsightly vein on his forehead. 

That’s when Joel moves to stand, extricating his hand from Hanzo’s back (which he sorely misses the minute it’s gone). He rises to his full height, which must be over six feet, and glares down at Frank. Hanzo cranes his neck to catch sight of his face.  _ Jesus _ , that look in his eyes is dark and dangerous and, even though he knows he’s probably mad as all Hell, it’s still ridiculously hot. Frank, who is on the receiving end of Joel’s glare, stumbles back from where he stands. For a second, fear flashes on his face, before rage consumes him once more. He settles back on the balls of his feet with fists raised, like he’s really going to fight the  _ much _ taller and  _ much _ more fit Morricone. 

“Frank,” Joel starts, sounding calm and easy despite the situation, “I’m gonna have to ask you to be–” 

Frank goes to take a swing at Morricone without letting him finish his sentence.  _ Holy shit.  _ For a second, Hanzo thinks he’s about to connect, but then his target easily grabs the smaller man’s hand, stopping him in his tracks. Joel glares down at him with blatant irritation in his eyes. Hanzo’s brows shoot up towards his hairline–  _ is he going to hit him instead? _

He doesn’t get an answer to that unspoken question, as a security guard steps in and grabs Frank by the arm that Morricone doesn’t have in his grip. Damn. Hanzo thought he was about to see Frank get his face knocked in. Honestly, he would have thoroughly enjoyed it. Then again, it would make it hard to keep observing Morricone if he had ended up escorted away by security. Hanzo watches Frank kick and scream out obscenities that he’s pretty sure are offensive to all walks of life as another security guard steps in and grabs his other arm. It’s only then that Joel releases his hand. The shorter man snarls at both guards, even as they escort him away from the casino floor and towards the nearest security office. He can hear his shouts and demands to be let go the entire time he’s being walked off. 

_ What a baby, throwing a fit like that because he lost a poker game _ . Well, to be fair, he had lost ten thousand dollars from said poker game, so that’s plausible reason to be upset. Especially since he had lost against… a… cheat? 

Wait a minute. Hanzo turns his head to stare at Morricone as he smooths down the front of his duster. The man shoots one last glare in Frank’s direction before he sits down again, hand immediately finding its way to the small of Hanzo’s back. Joel’s smile is uneasy but supposedly meant to be reassuring when he directs it his way. Hanzo doesn’t even really see him– he’s too busy running through every instance of the last hand and his observation of Morricone to process anything he’s seeing.  _ Had he seen him cheat?! _

Maybe when he’d looked at Frank that one time– no, that wasn’t long enough to switch out cards… Wait, how could he have switched out cards if he didn’t know what the last card was until the final betting round? There’s no way he could’ve anticipated Frank having a flush. If that last card hadn’t been an eight of diamonds, he wouldn’t have won. But somehow, someway, he did– and Hanzo honestly could not tell if it was because he cheated or not. There were no clear cut signs of him doing so and he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary this hand, nor the hand prior to that. 

He’s been a sniffer for quite some time now. It usually didn’t take him longer than two hands with a cheat to figure out their method. So to be unable to figure out how Morricone is cheating is immensely vexing– Hanzo will just have to play another round with him and pay absolute attention to everything he does. There is no way that Joel had won so much these past four days without cheating, and he  _ needs _ to figure out how. If not for his job, then for his own sanity. 

The entire time he’s been stuck in his own thoughts, Joel has been sitting there rearranging his chips– one-handedly, as his other hand has returned to its former place on Hanzo’s lower back. Well. Not… where it should be, but Hanzo won’t ask him to remove it. Considering how they’ve been flirting this whole time, doing so would just compromise who he is and why he’s here. The hand will remain where it is. Rubbing delightful circles into his skin through his shirt.  _ Gods,  _ that feels much nicer than it should. 

Hanzo shakes off the raunchy scenarios that start to formulate in his head in favor of turning to Joel, who notices that he’s not lost in thought anymore. The smile he was giving him just a few moments ago returns in full force, though it’s more assuring than the one before. It lights up his whole face, softens his hard edges, makes him seem so much more approachable than mere minutes ago. It’s a stark contrast to the look he’d given Frank. Hanzo can admit he likes this expression more than the other– not that that stern look didn’t cause his insides to perform the most acrobatic of flips.

“Sorry about that, honey,” Joel says, averting his eyes sheepishly. His smile takes a bashful turn. Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat, watching his cheeks darken to a ruddy red. Morricone’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and  _ is that really necessary _ , like, how dry could his lips  _ possibly _ be?  _ Maybe you could find out _ , a part of him says. He lets that thought linger much longer than it should. Hanzo is so fixated on it he almost misses the tail end of Joel’s sentence. “I promise, I ain’t usually that rough with people.” 

_ God _ , his willpower is not what it used to be. And he’s been spending too much time with Genji. Because he can’t stop himself from slipping into the easy flirting he’s been doing with Morricone this whole evening. 

“Is that so?” He purrs, despite the more rational part of his conscious screaming at him not to say anything. “Shame. I like rough.” 

Joel’s thumb halts in its soothing movement against his back.

What the  _ fuck _ is he even saying– that isn’t appropriate, nor is it something he should say to his  _ target _ . He really needs to stop going back and forth on this and do what he  _ knows _ he should do, which is focus on the assignment he’s been given and– 

“I’ll keep that in mind, baby,” Morricone says, voice low and rumbling out of him. It washes over Hanzo, settles in him, has ice and fire running through his veins and pooling in his midsection. He whips his head up to look at Joel and catches his eyes, which are simmering with desire. His thumb has begun rubbing Hanzo’s back again, though this time with more force. More insistence. Every swirl of the digit has his shirt pulling just the slightest bit upwards, out of where he has it tucked into his pants.  _ Fuck _ . 

Hanzo doesn’t have a chance to say another word, as three people come and sit themselves at the vacant chairs at their table. Morricone only looks a bit disappointed in having their privacy interrupted, though there’s still a smirk on his face when he turns to face the dealer, who Hanzo had honestly completely forgotten about. Joel is just so  _ distracting _ with his charming personality and his dashing good looks and his pet names, which are bad enough as is, but when he says them in that absurdly good, whiskey-smooth voice of his… It’s enough to drive a man crazy. 

Hanzo feels like he’s on the edge of madness.

Dimitri seems to jump at the chance to deal again, as he quickly trades cash for chips with the three new players and moves to shuffle the deck. Hanzo straightens up in his seat and scoots his chair a bit further in. He notices Morricone do the same, careful not to dislodge his hand from his back. He’s finished organizing his, frankly, ridiculous amount of poker chips and is quietly waiting for the dealer to finish mixing up the deck. Hanzo peeks at him out of the corner of his eye, watching his eyes for tell-tale signs of card counting. But they’re not focused on the cards. In fact, they’re not really focused at all– they seem far-away and dreamy and half-lidded and flicking over to meet Hanzo’s– 

_ Oh, fuck _ . 

Hanzo turns back to face Dimitri fully, ignoring how his face is starting to burn at being caught staring  _ again _ . How many times has it been now? Doesn’t matter, once is too many. He needs to be more careful with how he watches Joel or he’s going to end up in a situation that he doesn’t really want to be in. There would be no way to explain himself if he ended up in his target’s room, with Morricone pressing him against the bed, warm lips trailing up the curve of his neck, big hands holding his hips and fucking– 

_ God _ , who is he kidding, that is absolutely a situation he wants to be in. 

Joel’s fingers drum against his spine, sending a bolt of lightning through him as he comes back to himself. Right. He’s on assignment in the middle of a busy casino and the entire table is watching him because it’s his turn to bet and he’s sitting there, lost in thoughts that he really shouldn’t be entertaining at all, let alone in public. 

Hanzo clears his throat and pushes the minimum fifty dollar bet in, trying to act like his face isn’t darkening to scarlet in the meantime. He doesn’t have much money left in his bank– out of the five hundred he’d started with, he only has $150 left. And, after that bet, a hundred remains. There’s always the three hundred he has from the house he could use, if need be. But how many hands is he going to have to play with Morricone before he figures out how he’s cheating? How long is he going to be here, flirting and trying in vain to focus on the man’s playstyle and not his maddeningly handsome visage?

He’s acutely aware of the hand on his lower back, of its warmth and heaviness, of the gentle movement of his thumb. It draws patterns on his skin that he wants to commit to memory, that he wants trailing over the rest of his body, followed by hot lips and the scratch of facial hair, and  _ fuck _ – 

“Sir? What’ll your bet be?” 

Hanzo whips his head up, practically physically yanked from his thoughts, and stares at the source of the question. 

Dimitri has dealt out the hole cards and flipped over the first three board cards. The table is waiting for him to bet  _ again _ . Hanzo shakes himself off and pushes the minimum bet over once more, not even bothering to look at his cards. Gods, he really needs to take back some semblance of control over himself and his thoughts. Joel is just… so much, too much, he cannot handle it. Especially with that constant point of contact between them that Hanzo craves. He would rather be damned than let Morricone move his hand.

He tries to focus on the game instead of on his target. Although he’s looking at the cards, he’s not really  _ seeing _ them. To his left, he hears the soft sound of a chair being moved, and then the press of a thigh against his– of  _ Joel’s _ thigh against his. Warm, solid, and just as welcome as it was when he had first sat down next to the man.  _ Gods _ , as if the hand on his back isn’t bad enough… now he has to try and ignore  _ this _ too?

Every damn deity out there is absolutely laughing at him.

The third betting round begins and Hanzo tunes in enough to hear the wagers of the three other players before him. The first woman bets fifty, the next one puts down a hundred, and so does the last one. Not that it matters what they’re betting, considering he only has fifty dollars left in his own bank. He pushes it into the pot with one finger, flicking the ball of his tongue piercing against his teeth to keep himself grounded to the moment. The rhythmic clicking sound is better to focus on than the heat radiating off of Morricone’s body where he’s pressed against him. One is less dangerous than the other. 

Hanzo bites his lip, the same thought that he’s been having periodically this night pushing to the forefront of his mind.  _ He’s always liked danger _ . 

Well, fuck, he’s been flirting with ‘danger’ this whole night. ‘Danger’ has been flirting back. ‘Danger’ is wiggling his fingers against his lower back and gently pulling up his shirt, dislodging it from where it’s tucked into his slacks. ‘Danger’ is pressing his calloused fingertips against his bare skin, igniting fire in his veins with such a simple touch. Hanzo can barely hold back the gasp that threatens to escape him at the contact.  _ Fuck _ .

He gropes blindly for something solid to brace himself against, one hand gripping the edge of the poker table tightly while the other falls against something warm and solid and  _ pressed against him _ . Joel. Joel is pressed against him. That. That is Joel’s thigh he has his hand on. 

Hanzo hears a soft intake of breath beside him. 

Then, a shift. Fabric sliding against fabric with a soft  _ shhff _ . The squeaking of a chair. Joel’s thigh muscles twitch under his palm. He feels more than sees him lean closer to him. 

Morricone’s lips are a mere breath away from him.

“Y’know, the good parts are a little further in, darling.” He whispers, warm breath wafting over the shell of Hanzo’s ear. The words, the tone, the whiskey-smooth timbre of his voice, the promise– no, the  _ threat _ of contact, so close yet so far away,  _ too _ far away– all of it has arousal pooling in his stomach like molten lava. 

_ Fuck. _

It’s been three hands and he can’t figure out how in the  _ Hell  _ Morricone is cheating. And, yes, he can admit that he’s been more than a little bit distracted during this hand but that changes nothing. His assignment be damned, he can’t do this, he cannot focus on Joel the way he should. This is, really, his boss’ fault for calling him in on his day off, a day when he isn’t mentally prepared to sniff someone out. For fuck’s sake, Daniel would be happy if he just got Morricone away from the table so he would stop taking money from the house– 

_ Oh _ . 

Away from the table. 

Hanzo… technically will have done his job if he gets Joel away from the table, right? That way he isn’t antagonizing the other guests and the house with his cheating, whatever methods those may be. And, considering how the rest of the night has been going so far, what better way to get him away from the table than some… intense flirting? Perhaps a hand creeping in to where those ‘good parts’ are will entice the man to leave and find a more private space for the two of them to continue, where Hanzo will employ further… flirting… techniques… 

Seduction. He’s going to seduce him.

Hanzo would deny the thrill that surges through him at the thought of doing so until the end of his days. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo's resigned to the fact that he's going to have to seduce McCree, seeing as how he can't figure out how the man is cheating at poker. At least if he gets him away from the table, hes done his job, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HI!! Big ol' warnings for this chapter... Lotsa sex. That's basically it. HOWEVER read the tags for the specific kinks involved- if it aint your thing, i understand! Please enjoy :3c during the light dom/sub bit, Hanzo calls McCree Sir a few times (it's all just sexual, a part of the scene itself) but just a quick warning!!

“Sir? Your bet?”

Dimitri is looking at him with a single brow cocked, confusion in his eyes at having to remind Hanzo to wager for the third time that hand. He sits up straighter in his seat and leans forward, arching his back and giving Morricone more room for his hand to play. In the meantime, he drags his hand further inward and teases his target’s inseam, blunt nails gently dragging along his inner thigh. Joel lets out a soft, content sigh that’s only meant for his ears. Hanzo smirks– _good_ , he’s getting into this. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before Morricone begs to go somewhere more private.

“I fold,” Hanzo says calmly, which is surprising, considering his heartbeat is quickening in his chest. Dimitri shrugs at that and takes his hole cards away before turning to Morricone. His target’s voice is level when he raises the bet and pushes a few hundred dollars worth of chips towards the pot.

 _If he’s still able to speak without a hitch to his voice, I haven’t done my job well enough yet_ , Hanzo thinks to himself with lips pursed. His fingers dance up his inseam to the front of his pants with only a bit of hesitation. Taking a few deep breaths, Hanzo mentally prepares himself. It’s not a big deal, he’s just going to touch a stranger’s cock through his pants underneath a poker table while they’re in the middle of a busy casino on a Saturday night, which is coincidentally also where he’s employed and _okay just do it._ _Here goes nothing,_ he thinks. Gently, Hanzo cups the bulge in Joel’s slacks and– what the _fuck, is that his cock?!_

No one can blame him when his hand retreats, honestly, because what he just felt in Morricone’s pants is… absolutely ridiculous. “What the fuck,” he mutters under his breath because, seriously, what the _fuck_ . He hears a snort to the left of him. Hanzo glances over at Joel to see the man’s lips pressed into a tight line as he fights back a smile, shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter. He feels like he _should_ be irritated at that but… he just can’t be, not when Joel meets his eyes and offers him a silly wink while his thumb rubs gentle circles into his back.

God. He just wants to absolutely ruin that calm, easygoing expression of his. He wants to see that poker face of his chip. He wants to break him down and see how big this thing _really_ is.

Hanzo is much more sure in his movements as he cups Joel’s bulge once more. The size still intimidates him just the slightest bit but, more than that, it’s… incredibly erotic. Especially when he gently squeezes it and feels his cock twitch in his hand. Morricone’s legs part readily for him, giving him more space to work. Hanzo appreciates it quite a bit. Makes it so much easier to press his fingers against the rapidly hardening thickness in his slacks.

“Mmmm,” Joel hums happily, his own hand gently teasing at the waistband of Hanzo’s pants. _Oh_ , that’s… so tempting. So deliciously tempting. He’s so wrapped up in imagining that hand delving below his clothes that he doesn’t realize the round is over. From the looks of the chips being pushed in Morricone’s direction, he must’ve won… again. Unsurprising, really. But he surely wouldn’t be able to win the next hand with Hanzo distracting him.

Without any money in his bank, Dimitri doesn’t even bother dealing Hanzo in, which is more than fine with him. He’s content to keep his hand on Morricone’s crotch. The man in question’s breath seems just the slightest bit labored. _Good_. At least he knows that he’s affecting the man with the way he has his palm pressed firmly against his hardness. Carefully, so as to not let the whole table know what he’s up to, he grinds the heel of his hand against Joel's cock in minute movements.  
  
Morricone's next breath is heavier, exhaled out deeply as he very slowly rolls his hips up against the press of Hanzo's hand. Despite the way his hips shift, his upper body remains remarkably still. Which is for the best, considering that the rest of the table would certainly be able to tell what they are up to if their movements are noticed. The threat of being caught sends a thrill up Hanzo's spine, ice and fire mingling in his veins, pooling in his midsection. Joel's cock is thick and throbbing under his hand.  
  
And yet, even though his desire is blatant, pressing against the front of his slacks and begging to be released, Morricone doesn't say anything. He doesn't whisper in Hanzo's ear, asking him to get out of here, like he certainly wants to do (and Hanzo sorely wants it too, wants to unzip and unbutton his pants and get at the prize waiting for him inside, but he won’t say it out loud). Nor does he fold when Dimitri turns to him for the first betting round. Rather, he smoothly pushes over a wager to match the big blind and shifts in his seat nonchalantly, as if he isn’t being palmed underneath the table.

Hanzo _burns_ . What about breaking down his poker face? He’s supposed to be making this man come undone. _Seducing_ him! But here he sits, calm and collected while throbbing in his slacks, albeit with breathing just the slightest bit heavier. That’s the only indication that there’s anything different from this round from the last three. And, while he certainly doesn’t want to get _caught_ jacking off a stranger in public (let alone his place of work and his _target_ ), he wishes he was drawing more of a reaction out of the man.

No matter. If Morricone wants to play this game, he is more than willing to up the ante. They might not be betting with chips or money, but their dignity and pride is on the table instead. Hanzo is _determined_ not to lose– after losing two hands against the man, he deserves to win.

Which is his justification for plucking at the button that keeps Joel’s pants closed. It’s what he tells himself as he finally undoes it and pinches his zipper between thumb and forefinger. It’s his reasoning for slowly sliding the zip down, feeling the slight catch of each and every part of the zipper’s teeth before he _finally_ can slide a hand into his pants. By the time he’s managed to unfasten Morricone’s slacks, the fourth hand is nearing the final betting round. Not that he cares about the poker game right now– he’s busy focusing on a _different_ prize.

Hanzo worries his lower lip between his teeth as he wriggles his hand underneath the fabric of Joel’s pants, fingers connecting with the soft cotton of his underwear. Just below it, he can _feel_ the heat radiating off his target’s cock. _Fuck_ , he wants it. He wants to wrap not only his hand around it, but his lips– he wants it to press against his mouth, to penetrate him and strike him deep. Just the thought has his eyelids fluttering as he sinks his teeth harder into his lip. He’d have it soon enough– if he can get Morricone to break down.

Sliding his hand into the opening at the front of his boxers, Hanzo distantly hears Joel’s sharp intake of breath as his fingers wrap around his incredibly hard cock. It takes some careful finagling but he’s able to pull his cock out of the slit in his underwear, exposing it to the slightly chilly air of the casino. It twitches at the sudden cold, but starts to throb when Hanzo wraps his hand fully around it and gives it an experimental stro– _holy shit, that’s metal on his dick_.

Does he. Does he have piercings? Are those _piercings_ on his _cock?!_

Hanzo is suddenly very lightheaded. The sound of his heartbeat roars in his ears as he lets go of Morricone’s length only to drag his fingers along it, searching for what he’d felt against his palm. As he swipes his fingertips up from base to head he feels one, two, three, _four_ barbells pierced along his shaft. None under the glans, nor any pierced through the tip. So, just a four-rung frenum ladder. He had wanted to climb Morricone like the tallest tree in the vicinity before but now? Now he has a _ladder_ to help him– one he wants to walk his fingers and tongue up as he acquaints the head with the back of his throat, or with his prostate and _fuck–_

It takes a _ridiculous_ amount of willpower, but he manages not to moan aloud at the thought of his target’s thick, _pierced_ cock pushing into him. He silently prays to whatever deity that will listen that Morricone will take mercy on the both of them and suggest they get out of there because he’s not sure _he’ll_ be able to contain himself much longer– and he’s not even the one getting his cock stroked.

Hanzo eagerly wraps his hand around Joel’s length once more, barely suppressing a sigh as he feels those lovely barbells against his palm. He never could’ve anticipated that this suave person, with such a classic look, would be sporting metal in such an intimate place. Not that he should judge based on appearance– at first glance, he’s sure he doesn’t look like someone that would have not only their tongue pierced, but their nipples and their taint as well. A bridge piercing and multiple ear piercings meant nothing when it came to intimate jewelry. It’s a pleasant surprise, though, certainly not one he’d complain about.

The hand Morricone is playing wraps up and he wins. Again. Hanzo’s been keeping his eyes on the table, though he doesn’t really _see_ anything that’s happening, considering he’s far too focused at the task… _ahem_ , for lack of better terms, at _hand_. Still, he notices that Dimitri pushes the pot towards Joel and collects the cards on the table to shuffle them once more. Hanzo doesn’t really want to but he chances a glance up at the dealer, an apology already on his tongue in case he’s noticed what he’s doing below the table. Luckily, he seems to not be focused on Hanzo and Joel– or, more likely, is pointedly ignoring them. That’s fine by him. He’s busy anyways.

Speaking of _busy_ , he focuses on moving his wrist more than his arm, which makes it quite difficult to stroke the entirety of Morricone’s cock, though he makes do. With every movement he can feel him throb in his hand. If he stopped and just held his dick, he’s sure he would feel his pulse under the velvety skin. But he… really does _not_ want to stop. His lip is probably bruised by now with how he’s been biting down on it. Hanzo’s heartbeat beats so _loud_ , loud enough that he fears the entire casino can hear him, can see what he’s doing. He feels so incredibly dirty but, _fuck,_ if it doesn’t feel so _good_ at the same time.

Joel’s hand on his back, which has been just lazily rubbing at his spine this whole time, goes back to toying with his waistband but with more fervor than before. Hanzo hums low in the back of his throat, wiggling in his seat in quiet joy and desire for more. The message seems to get across to Morricone because he chuckles soft and sweet before slipping just his fingertips below both his slacks and his underwear. The touch of his calloused digits against such a private spot– in _public_ – has Hanzo’s neglected cock throbbing needily.

Morricone kneads at his skin while casually making bets on the hand he’s playing. Hanzo hears him do so distantly, past the rush of blood and the rapid-fire beat of his heart that’s deafening in his ears. It _must_ be the second betting round by now, right? When will Joel finally succumb to Hanzo’s seduction and ask him to get out of there? Is he going to have to do so himself? He lets go of his lower lip and clicks his tongue piercing against his teeth instead, pride and desire warring with each other inside of him. Does he give in to his own wants or does he satisfy his prideful need to break Morricone down?

What the Hell is he saying? He already knows which part of him wins– he’s Hanzo Shimada, for Gods’ sake.

He’ll… just have have to entice him more.

Hanzo is determined as he swipes his thumb across Joel’s leaking slit, his heart leaping into his throat at the erotic feeling. There’s an instantaneous desire to lift his hand up to his mouth and to suck the bitter precome off his thumb that he quashes down. Later. _Hopefully._ In the meantime, he busies himself with spreading the steady stream of precome down Morricone’s length, which makes it so much easier to stroke him.

He’s just getting into the groove, twisting his wrist with every slide up and down Joel’s thick cock, when the man’s warm hand leaves its rightful spot against Hanzo’s back. _What the hell?_ His brows furrow as he stops stroking his target’s length. Why is he– is he leaving? Did Hanzo assume that he’s interested in doing more? Did he just stroke this stranger’s cock under the table for _nothing?!_

Joel’s hand slides down Hanzo’s forearm to wrap around his wrist. He hears more than sees him shift beside him before there’s warm breath washing over the shell of his ear. That whiskey-smooth voice of his, in that delectable low timbre, says the words he’s been longing to hear since he fished his cock out of his slacks a round and a half ago–

“Let’s take this somewhere private, honey.”

 _Gods yes_.

Hanzo nods his assent, unsure how steady his voice would be if he tried to talk. He lets Morricone push his hand away, watches him tuck that pretty pierced prick back into his slacks, and sits back in his seat. Surreptitiously, he hides his suspiciously shiny hand from prying hands as he crosses his arms over his chest. Hanzo doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the last betting round, nor to Joel cashing his chips in for cash– he’s far too busy thinking of how he’d rather be on his knees, having Morricone’s cock buried balls deep in either end of him. He only emerges from that particular fantasy when Joel stuffs the rolls of bills in the pocket of his red duster and stands beside him. In just a few minutes, he’d hopefully be able to fulfill that particular fantasy in the privacy of his target’s room.

“Thanks for the game, ladies,” Morricone says, shooting the women that sat at the table with them a brilliant smile and a tip of his hat. Hanzo glances at them and sees irritation in two pairs of eyes, along with a forced smile (likely on account of how small their individual banks are now– how _much_ did he win?), while the last woman is staring at Hanzo with unrestrained jealousy in the set of her jaw.

_Oh?_

Joel extends an arm for Hanzo to take, which he does gladly, all while gracing the three women with a self-satisfied smile. But especially the third one– he pointedly watches her _burn_ as they take steps away from the table and towards the hotel portion of the Aria casino. He swears he can feel the heat of her glare on his back as Morricone leads him away from them and closer to blessed privacy.

 _Too bad– I saw him first_ , Hanzo thinks to himself, smug and proud like a cat who’d gotten the cream– not that he’s gotten the ‘cream’ _yet_ . But he would. _Soon_. And his mouth waters at the thought. After hours of teasing and flirting, he’s practically aching for it.

Joel whistles softly as they duck and weave through the crowd of tourists. Hanzo finds now that he’s not in the moment that he’s surprisingly nervous. One night stands aren’t normally his… thing. And sleeping with a stranger after only a few hours and a handful of flirty sentences is odd for him. Well, so is giving said stranger a handjob under a table while in public. It’s incredibly out of character for him and even he can admit it. Then again, it’s not every day that you encounter someone so deliciously handsome, wonderfully kind, and unbelievingly charming as Joel Morricone.

Hanzo chances a glance up at his target’s face and finds him looking rather peaceful, though the spring to his step and his tight grip on his arm belies how anxious he is to get to the elevators. He can tell that he’s just a mite nervous, which is unfairly _cute_. It’s quite reassuring to know he’s not the only one.

They reach the elevators without an issue, luckily, and Joel practically lunges to press the call button. He settles on his heels beside Hanzo once he’s done so, bouncing on the balls of his feets and looking at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the hall. Hanzo is just starting to hum along to Morricone’s nervous whistling when it abruptly stops and only the distant sound of slot machines, America’s top 500 playing from the casino speakers, and rambling tourists remains.

Joel audibly clears his throat beside him once, then twice, then a third time, more loud and insistent than the other two. Hanzo finally turns to look at him, ignoring the way his stomach jumps when their eyes meet. Morricone’s smile is likely supposed to come off as easy but all he sees is nervousness in the twitch of his lips. _What’s that look for?_

“Hey, Hanzo,” his target says, a slight waver to his voice despite how even he tries to make it, “I got a confession to make…”

 _I swear to any God out there, if he confesses his cheating methods now_ –

Joel’s eyes avert from Hanzo’s for a moment before he seemingly steels himself and their eyes meet once more, with his being far more intense than they were a moment before. Hanzo’s breath is caught in his throat as he watches the taller man straighten his back, suck in a breath, and forge onward–

“My name ain’t Joel Morricone.”

 _What_.

Well. It isn’t what he was expecting, but it’s certainly surprising nonetheless. A fake name? Is he dealing with someone who’s a repeat offender, or someone more dangerous than his boss had thought? Is his target actually some sort of criminal _mastermind?!_ He might like danger but not _that_ much danger. Hanzo tilts his head at Joel (not Joel?) curiously, one well-groomed brow arching in question despite how nervous he is. He figures he shouldn’t have to voice what the question _is_ , which rings true when Morricone(?) reaches up and nervously scratches the back of his neck as he opens his mouth to explain.

“Um, my real name’s Jesse. Jesse McCree. Shoulda told you that sooner, I reckon, considerin’, y’know… the, uh…” He trails off and does a crude stroking gesture with one hand that Hanzo _almost_ laughs at. Really? They’re about to go up to his room and do Gods know what and he can’t even say the word _handjob?_

Okay, he can probably rule out the ‘criminal mastermind’ idea. There’s no way a criminal would bashfully admit his real name while miming a handy. Hanzo manages a smile at Joe– _Jesse_ , which gets him a relieved look in return. Aw, he was nervous. Did he think he would leave, knowing he didn’t have such a… “lovely” name to shout later? Silly man. Jesse is a much better name than Joel, if you asked him.

He crosses his arms over his chest, rocking back onto his heels while asking him, “Why the fake name?” Hanzo figures he deserves to at least know that, considering they are about to go roll in the hay, so to speak. His target owes him an explanation, however brief that may be.

McCree’s expression shifts from nervous to carefully blank in an instant. It startles him– did he cross a line? Was there a reason behind his fake name that he shouldn’t know about? _Is he really a criminal mastermind–_

“Y’ever wanted to be a someone else for a week or two?”

Hanzo blinks, train of thought quickly derailed with Jesse’s words, and turns his head up to look at his target. Those lips of his twist into a slight grimace, as if he realizes his explanation can be taken as odd or maybe that he sounds crazy. But he’s _not_ . Because, odd as it might sound, Hanzo has absolutely entertained the thought of adopting an entirely new persona. Of running away and starting anew– a new name, a new job, a new home. A life started where no one knows him or his family or where he came from. He absolutely understands what McCree means, and to find someone who not only shares the same fantasy but is _fulfilling_ it is quite sobering.

Hanzo’s voice is quiet when he finally answers Jesse’s question. It’s accompanied by a gentle hand on his arm that gets his attention and has the two of them locking eyes with one another. McCree still looks a bit upset– more at himself and what he said than Hanzo, for certain– but that expression of his smooths over when he meets his gaze without an ounce of judgement. His voice is soft and barely loud enough to be heard over the din coming from the casino just outside the hall.

“Jesse, I think about it more often than I’d like to admit.”

McCree’s eyes widen at that, like he can’t believe that Hanzo would ever want to be someone else. His mouth opens and closes a few times, sentences he doesn’t know the start to dying on his tongue before he even says a word. This conversation is peculiarly serious, considering what they had just been up to at the poker table. Hanzo moves to turn and face the elevators once more, ready to drop their conversation, when Jesse places a careful hand on his hip. The grip of his fingers is light, barely there, but it’s enough to keep Hanzo from looking elsewhere. McCree’s eyes bore into him, unrelenting.

“I know I might be jus’ a stranger, might’ve only known you for jus’ a few hours now,” he starts, his other hand finding a place on Hanzo’s hip as well, “But, to be honest with ya, I don’t think I’d have you any other way.”

 _Fuck_ , he’s… such an incorrigible flirt. Teasing Hanzo like this, saying such lovely things about him. His heart threatens to beat out of his ribcage at just his words. With tentative movements, he settles his hands against his target’s chest, breath catching his throat when the space between them shortens. McCree’s hands slide along the curve of his hips to lace together behind his back, tugging Hanzo closer as he does so. Before he knows it, they’re almost chest to chest, and McCree is looking at him with such an open, honest look that Hanzo _almost_ believes he’s not a cheat.

“Can’t imagine why someone as perfect as you would wanna be someone else,” Jesse coos softly, sweetly. Gods, doesn’t he know he already has Hanzo? He doesn’t need to lay on the compliments. Not that he’d tell him to stop. He quite likes having the full attention of such a handsome man, and to hear him say such sweet things is heavenly.

“You flatter me, McCree,” Hanzo says, dragging his hands up the dark blue silk of Jesse’s waistcoat and along the starched cotton of his button down. He laces his fingers together behind McCree’s neck, just as the man had done behind his back, and smiles up at him. If he wants to get this handsy with him, Hanzo has no qualms about it. In fact, he welcomes it.

Jesse grins at him, shaking his head. “Jus’ tellin’ you the truth, darlin’.” Despite knowing he’s only trying to butter him up, Hanzo’s heart jumps in his chest. He watches, enraptured, as McCree leans towards him. His lips tingle, though he doesn’t dare move, lest he upset the course that his target is on. Jesse’s head tilts, and he gets closer, closer, _closer_ – the heat of his mouth is deliciously near and–

 _Ding_.

“Elevator’s here,” McCree says against him, warm breath washing over his lips instead of his mouth blessedly colliding with his. Hanzo stares, frozen in place, as his target pulls away from him and extricates himself from his grip. As if he wasn’t mere centimeters away from kissing him, he strolls to the open elevator and stands in the middle of the door’s path, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips. There’s a swagger to his walk, a confidence in his smile, and plain ol’ pride in his half-hooded eyes.

Hanzo _burns_.

He can admit that he’s pouting just the slightest bit as he makes his way over to the elevator that McCree is keeping open for him. Hanzo makes it a point not to look at Jesse when he walks by him– not that the man seems to notice. He makes a silent resolution to not make the first move to get back at McCree for his teasing ways. For once, the elevator is empty, which is quite the surprise. Usually, casino elevators were always packed, so to have the space to themselves is a blessing. The doors close behind him and Hanzo turns, a comment about the lack of people in the elevator on his tongue when, suddenly, there’s a warm mouth on his and big hands on his hips and he’s being crowded against the nearest corner of the elevator.

Well. At least he didn’t have to wait long for what McCree had teased him with. Which is _much_ more of a blessing than the elevator being empty.

“Mmph,” Hanzo hums, whatever he was going to say now lost. He doesn’t care to try and remember it either, not when McCree is tilting his head and deepening their kiss. Electricity crackles up his spine, through his veins, makes his lips tingle deliciously– all while his target kisses him like his life depends on it. Gods almighty, if it isn’t so wonderful to be kissed again, after who _knows_ how long. Hanzo can’t help the small moan that bubbles up out of him when Jesse swipes his tongue along the seam of his lips, silently asking for entrance that he oh-so-willingly gives.

McCree lets go of his hips only to grab at his ass, fingers digging into the meat of each cheek while his tongue presses into Hanzo’s mouth. _Fuck_ , it feels so good; being handled so roughly, the slick slide of their tongues against one another, the scratch of their beards together. Hanzo reaches up and wraps his arms around McCree’s neck, tilting his head in the opposite direction of McCree’s to further deepen their intense kiss. Jesse groans against him and he echoes the sound back at him, low and rumbling in his throat. He cants his hips forwards, desperately seeking friction against his cock, and McCree takes the matter into his own hands.

There’s no way to describe the sound that comes out of him as anything other than a _squeak_ when Jesse parts from his lips to bend down just enough to grip the backs of his knees and haul him up. This new position forces him to spread his legs to accommodate McCree’s mass, which he does eagerly. Hanzo even goes as far as hooking his ankles together at the small of his target’s back, making it much easier to keep himself up with his thighs clenched around him. And it makes it _much_ easier to grind his hard cock into the other man’s abdomen– something he does immediately when he recovers from the sudden change in position. The drag of his erection against him has sparks igniting in his midsection and wrenches a moan from his lips. Although the contact is simple, fleeting, it’s sorely needed– his dick has been neglected for the past hour, throbbing in his underwear while he gave McCree’s member all the attention. It’s _his_ turn now.

Jesse’s breath hitches, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before they narrow at Hanzo. Those spit-slick lips of his split into a small smirk, devious and dripping with dangerous promise. _Oh?_ He slides his hands up the curve of his muscled thighs around to the swell of his ass, leaving trails of fire in his wake, and uses his leverage on him to pull Hanzo closer to him.

How much closer can you get when your cock is pressed against someone’s abdomen? Apparently, you _can_ get closer, because McCree finds a way to do so, somehow. His grip on Hanzo’s ass keeps him steady as his target rolls his hips up, grinding his clothed erection into the delicate underside of his cheeks while encouraging him to rut against him in kind. Which he does eagerly. _Fuck_ , it’s extraordinary, addictive, _so so good_ – he can’t get enough. Every thrust of his hips has arousal pooling in his midsection, hot and insistent, like McCree’s mouth against the alabaster column of his neck.

Wait. When did that happen?

 _Fuck_ , why does he even care– it feels phenomenal, and he certainly doesn’t have any qualms about it, especially with Jesse grinding so deliciously against him. Hanzo tilts his head, airy moans slipping from his lips while McCree blazes a trail of open-mouthed kisses up his neck. Every press against his overheated skin is accompanied by a drag of his teeth, a threat of danger and a promise of bites that Hanzo wouldn’t even _think_ of denying.

 _Christ_ , his head is spinning. The air in this elevator is stifling. And hot, so hot, cloying in his lungs– he can’t catch his breath and McCree doesn’t give him a chance to. He kisses like he’s dying and Hanzo is his salvation, up up _up_ to the sensitive skin just below the curve of Hanzo’s jaw, to the spot near his ear, and he loves the scratch of his finely groomed beard and stubble against his skin. What he loves even more is the press of McCree’s warm lips just below the curve of his ear and the hot breath that washes over his sensitive skin and the–

“Fuck, if you ain’t the hottest thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of gettin’ my hands on,” Jesse growls, low and incredibly erotic. Is it even legal to have a voice that sounds like auditory sex? Like, are there laws against it? There should be. Especially when said voice is being poured straight into his ears, saying the filthiest things and driving him mad. “Gotta say, was harder than _Hell_ to keep my cool down there. If there weren’t laws against it, I woulda put you over that table an’ fucked you right out there in the open, in front of all those people.”

 _Gods_ , the concept is ridiculously enticing. To be spread open and vulnerable in the midst of so many people while a single person reduced him to a begging mess– _Hanzo, come on, there are laws preventing that sort of thing, stop thinking about it_ , he tells himself. Then again, they’re probably breaking a _lot_ of laws by making out and grinding in an elevator like a pair of horny teenagers. And only one of those descriptors applies to the two of them.

“Wouldja like that? Wanna be split on my cock, Hanzo?” Jesse asks, barely a whisper against the shaved sides of his head. Although his head is spinning and he’s barely able to discern which way is up right now, he knows the difference between someone asking seriously and when they’re saying things in the heat of the moment.

Hanzo tilts his head towards McCree’s and presses his lips against the stubbled curve of his jaw, delighting in his sudden intake of breath and the way his hips stutter in their rhythm. _Perfect_ . Just as Jesse had done, Hanzo slides his lips up up _up_ the curve of his jaw to the spot below his ear. After a gentle drag of his teeth against that sensitive patch of skin, he takes the lobe of his ear between his teeth and tugs. _That_ gets him the most pleasured groan he’s heard yet, and he swears he can feel McCree’s cock twitching against his backside as he ruts against him desperately.

“Jesse,” he breathes against him, voice airy but slow and measured, as he releases his hold on his ear, “I want nothing more than to get to your hotel room–”

He pauses to grind his hips down, encouraging Jesse to rut against him and wrenching a strangled moan from his lips. The sound is heavenly in this small elevator, echoing off the walls and back to Hanzo in stereo.

“–and yank those pants of yours down, push you onto the bed–”

Hanzo purposefully drags his nails along the back of McCree’s neck, feeling the goosebumps under his skin with satisfaction. He swears he hears his target whimper, those fingers of his digging into the meat of his ass like he’s the only lifeline he has. _Good_. He more than has his attention– Jesse is wrapped around his little finger and enraptured in his filthy speech. Exactly where he wants the man. Well, there and one other place.

“–and sink that cock of yours into me, right where it _belongs_.”

Arousal thrums through his body, sets his veins afire, and has his cock throbbing where it sits trapped between his body and McCree’s. His target hangs off every lust-fueled word he’s said, the elevator quiet save for his own labored breathing and McCree’s muted pants into the junction of his neck and shoulder. For a moment, Hanzo fears he broke him, or that he’s come in his pants. Or maybe he’s crossed a line? He’s moments away from pulling back and asking Jesse what’s wrong when the man shifts and captures his lips, swallowing down any syllables he had on his tongue.

Okay, this is good. This is very good. Kissing is good. Kissing is especially good when he presses his tongue forward into his target’s mouth and Jesse’s own tongue presses against his. It’s _really_ good when he moans aloud at the feeling of Hanzo’s tongue piercing– he’s surprised he hadn’t felt it earlier, but it doesn’t matter, seeing as the man seems to absolutely _love it_ regardless of when he discovered it.

“Gods above and below, yer so fuckin’ sexy,” McCree moans into his mouth between heated kisses. Hanzo hums back, too busy trying to get Jesse to slide his tongue into his mouth so he can suck on it to bother with an actual reply. By the time he’s actually managed to wordlessly coerce his target into doing what he wants, the elevator is slowing to a halt– _finally_. Not that he lets the elevator stopping keep him from closing his lips around McCree’s tongue and dragging his teeth along the muscle. The strained groan that he gets for that is music to his ears. With a soft pop, he releases his tongue and parts from him, but not without stealing one last kiss.

“Elevator’s here,” Hanzo says against him, an echo of what he’d said downstairs breathed out against his warm lips. Jesse seems reluctant to let him down, what with how his tight grip on him hasn’t loosened even though the elevator has stopped on their floor. It’s only when the doors slide open that McCree finally lets him go– which is lucky for the two of them, as there’s a group of guests waiting to enter the lift standing outside the doors.

 _Shit_.

The crowd stares at the two of them, unblinking, and he _knows_ what they see. Hanzo’s legs are shaky and he knows for a fact that he’s got a noticeable erection in his pants ( _Who wouldn’t, after that shameless display?_ ), though McCree isn’t much better. They are quite obviously looking at two people caught in the act of _something_ and, while the concept of exhibitionism is quite erotic, he cannot stand to be under their scrutiny for much longer.

After a fake cough into his fist, he runs his hands down the front of his grey button down and stands up straight, leveling a look at the opposite wall and acting like the other hotel occupants aren’t even there. His blood runs hot and cold through his veins. Fear that his shame will show on his face in scarlet hues grows by the second, so he grabs at Jesse’s hand to lead him out of the elevator, eager to get somewhere more private. The rather sizeable group readily parts for them. He knows their eyes are locked on the two of them, what with their clothes and hair a mess, their lips spit-slick and swollen from their intense kissing, and their fingers laced together.

“Howdy, pardon us, comin’ through,” McCree says behind him, following him through the group of people and likely tipping his hat at each of them, though Hanzo can’t see him doing so. Rather than stick around and wait for Jesse to make friends with all of them, he yanks the cowboy along with him away from the elevators and down the nearest hallway.

“Wrong way, sugar,”

Right. Of course.

Hanzo turns on his heel and strides past McCree, whose lips are parted in the biggest shit-eating grin he’s ever seen. He uses his grip on his hand to lead him quickly past the elevators and the gaggle of people, who are _still_ staring at them ( _do they not realize the elevator is open, or have any decency?!_ ) and down the other hallway. Pointedly ignoring Jesse’s muffled chuckling behind him, he walks past hotel rooms until his target squeezes his hand and stops him in his tracks.

“This is the one,” McCree tells him, voice low and _much_ closer than he thought it would be. He sucks in a breath as the cowboy crowds him up against the door. _Fuck yes_ , Hanzo thinks to himself, eyelids fluttering closed when Jesse grinds his cock into his backside. He presses back into his rolling thrusts in kind, a low keen bubbling out of him as he hears McCree fumble with the keycard to his room. The scanner beeps negatively at him once, twice– which is followed by a quiet, “ _fucking piece of shit_ ”– three times, before it finally, blessedly unlocks. Jesse wrenches open the door with more force than necessary and they stumble in, with Hanzo turning to face his target just in time to watch him kick the door closed behind him.

For a moment, they stand there, staring at each other without a word, not even a sound. Although it’s dim in the room, Hanzo can see how hungry McCree’s eyes are, how his gaze flicks along his person before settling on his face. He hopes his own desire shows in his eyes, that it’s properly conveyed in the silence that stretches on between them. There they stand, transfixed on one another.  

Hanzo’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and the spell is broken.

They crash together, a wave of lips and teeth and tongue. Hanzo grabs at his leather duster while Jesse’s fingers scrabble at his hips. He slides his hands up the curve of his biceps and the the width of his shoulders to where he cups his stubble-covered jaw, head tilting so he can easily accept McCree’s probing tongue into his mouth. Jesse groans and Hanzo swallows the noise gladly. His big hands leave his hips for a moment, just to yank his jacket off and leave it in a heap on the ground behind him, before they return and grip him even tighter than before.

They take steps together backwards, away from the entryway and through the dark towards the bed. Hanzo is glad McCree knows the layout of the room because he’s too busy acquainting his tongue with the back of said man’s throat to pay any attention to where they’re going. It’s only when the backs of his knees hit the bed that he comes back to himself.

 _Push you onto the bed_ , he’d said. Did McCree really think he would forget?

Hanzo parts from Jesse with a ragged breath and twists their positions, catching his target off-guard. With a hand on his chest, he shoves him back and watches him hit the bed, hat flying off with the force of it. He bounces a bit on impact and lets out a soft, “oof,” before pushing himself up onto his elbows. There’s a smirk to his lips that he revels in. Hanzo makes sure those eyes are on him as he toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed on hands and knees. The lust in those brilliant amber eyes is practically tangible as they watch him crawl over him. There’s not a hint of surprise to them when he presses his hands against McCree’s chest and pushes him to lay flat against the bed. There’s not anything but desire and arousal and _heat_ and–

 _“She could tell right away that I was bad to the bone! Bad to the bone! B-b-b-b-baaaaaaaaad–”_

_What_.

“Fucking– god damn it, son of a bitch.” McCree groans, throwing his head back against the bed rather forcefully. Hanzo stares at him, confused as all Hell. Why is _Bad to the Bone_ playing? _Where_ is it even coming from? He can hear it coming from somewhere behind him but doesn’t dare turn around, keeping his eyes on his target and watching his expression. Jesse’s frown is deep, as is the furrow between his brows. That look quickly morphs into an apologetic one as he easily flips their position, leaving Hanzo spread out on the bedspread staring at the ceiling while Jesse jumps off the bed.

_Wait, what?_

“Where are you–”

“Sorry, gotta take this!” McCree calls over his shoulder, flicking on the overhead lights as he quickly walks over to the entryway before he dips down to rummage through the pockets of his duster. The whole time, Han can hear him muttering under his breath, not as quiet as he thinks he’s being. “Been waiting for him to call me all damn day and he decides to call now, Gods damn it, pops…”  

Hanzo pushes himself up onto his elbows, watching McCree fish his phone out of his pocket and press the answer button. Jesse presses the device to his ear with an, “ _hola papá_ ,” before he turns around and walks away from the entryway and further into the room. Anything else he says is lost to Hanzo– he doesn’t speak very much Spanish in the first place and McCree starts talking rather quickly, making it difficult to understand anything other than the occasional _papá._

He’s a bit huffy that they got interrupted for the second time that evening (if one can really _be_ interrupted in a public elevator) but understands. When Genji calls, he usually drops everything to answer him– he’s his only living relative that he’s on good terms with, so it makes sense. Rather than pout, he turns his head to watch McCree where he stands in front of the window. In front of the _panoramic_ window. How hadn’t he noticed that when they first walked in?

Wait, he knows how. McCree is a _very_ good distraction.

No matter. Hanzo turns to lay on his stomach, admiring how his target looks, illuminated by the lights of the Strip and the gentle lighting in their room. His waistcoat and shirt are wrinkled and untucked from his slacks in back, likely from how roughly they’d been grabbing at each other. Hanzo finds he likes the back of him just as much as he likes the front– even through the layers, McCree’s muscles are evident in the thickness of his thighs and the stretch of his shirt between his shoulder blades. Hanzo wants to feel him flex and watch the ripple of his muscles as McCree fucks into him– Gods, how long is this phone call going to _take?!_

It’s only been a few minutes at this point but Hanzo is impatient. After waiting for a few hours, he doesn’t want to wait a second more. Where does Jesse get off accepting a call when they were _just_ about to get to the good parts? The man should really be taught a lesson about manners with one’s partner… and he knows just the thing to do.

Hanzo smirks deviously at Jesse’s back and pushes himself up and off the bed, which doesn’t make a sound. Bless new hotels. He’s already thinking about what he’s going to do to him as he makes his way around the furniture. McCree is so engrossed in his conversation that he doesn’t even notice Hanzo until he presses himself against his back in a long, solid line.

Oh but damn him– Jesse’s voice doesn’t falter in the slightest, nor does his stance change at all. Hanzo cannot help but pout at that. _Pay attention to me_ , a very loud part of him says. Determination to break him down fuels his actions as he slides his hands over the curve of McCree’s waist and along his muscled abdomen, delighting in the feeling of dark blue silk against his fingertips. He pauses with his hands on Jesse’s stomach, waiting for a reaction of any sort. When even _that_ doesn’t get him a response, he realizes he has to take more drastic measures. If McCree insists on ignoring him despite his efforts, he just needs to get under his skin.

Up the ante, so to speak.

His fingers are sure as they quickly take care of the four silver buttons keeping the waistcoat closed. The minute he undoes the final fastener, Jesse takes a step away from him, closer to the window, and shrugs the vest off. Like this was just a normal day, like he’d been the one to undo the buttons, casual and calm as can be. The waistcoat ends up in a heap on the ground with McCree still talking on the phone in rapid fire Spanish. Hanzo stares at his back, shocked, even as his target steps back into the space he’d just been occupying.

Okay. Alright. If he wants to play like that, pretending Hanzo isn’t there, then he’ll make _sure_ that he can’t ignore him.

That’s his reasoning behind walking around Jesse so they’re chest to chest. It’s his reasoning for sliding to his knees in front of the man, fluid and graceful. His hands slide down McCree’s front, wrinkling his button down and settling on his thighs. And even _that_ doesn’t get him anything other than a glance and a raised brow, as if he’s asking, “ _what do you think you’re doing?_ ”. Not an intake of breath or a smile or a shake of his head. Hanzo grits his teeth. Stubborn man.

But he’s _more_ stubborn than that. With eyes locked on McCree’s impassive ones, he drags his hands up his thighs to his ostentatious belt buckle and deftly undoes it. The heavy metal clicks against itself before it the clip falls to the side and leaves the button and zip exposed. Hanzo licks his lips, making sure that McCree doesn’t dare look away as he pops the button on his slacks and unzips him with the other hand.

Jesse watches him, a spark of interest in his amber eyes that Hanzo sees despite how calm he acts. _Good_ . He wants more that, wants to break down his expression and leave him a mess, wants whoever it is on the other end of the phone to know what’s happening here. _Papá_ , he’d said earlier. Perhaps McCree will be smart enough to hang up before his father knows what he’s up to in Vegas.

Hanzo hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of both Jesse’s underwear and his slacks before he pulls both garments down to rest around mid-thigh. McCree doesn’t stop him but his unoccupied hand does settle in his hair, eyes boring into him as inch after inch of his sepia skin is exposed to the slightly chilly air of the hotel room. Excitement thrums through his veins, electric and delectable. Hanzo drops his eyes from McCree’s to his crotch, breath caught in his throat. He’s finally seeing what he had been playing with downstairs and–

 _Gods_ _almighty_ , Jesse McCree is _big_.

There it is, half-hard and thick, dark, with an untamed patch of dark brown hair at the base. Hanzo’s enraptured by the sight of it, sitting there in front of him, begging to be touched. He slides his hands up McCree’s muscled thighs while enjoying the drag of the hair covering them against his palms. Carefully, he moves to curl his hand around the base of his cock, heartbeat quickening in his chest at the _heat_ he can feel radiating off his member. _Fuck_ , if that, couple with the size and girth, isn’t incredibly erotic, he doesn’t know what is.

Hanzo gives Jesse’s cock an experimental tug, running his slightly loose grip along the shaft. Those piercings of his roll on the upstroke, and again when he slides his hand down. The feel of them is interesting but not unwelcome– he can only imagine how they would feel inside of him. _Fuck_ , he can’t wait. Anticipation has him quickening the pace of his strokes, eyes glued to Jesse’s cock. A few quick tugs and it thickens entirely, the muscle growing fat and heavy in his hand. It raises from where it had been partially flaccid to entirely hard. His mouth waters as he turns his cock to point towards the ceiling, eyes tracing the veins on the underside and admiring the barbells pierced underneath the thin skin covering his shaft.

McCree’s fingers stroke encouragingly through his hair. His hips jut forward just the slightest bit. He’s _still_ on the phone, whiskey-smooth voice talking casually in Spanish as if Hanzo isn’t even there. The only part of hint that he’s even being affected by Hanzo is the slight flush to his sun-kissed cheeks and the way his cock twitches minutely in his grip.

No matter; he’s determined to pull a reaction from his target and he will not stop until he gets one. (And, even then, if he’s being honest, he won’t stop.)

Hanzo leans in, eyes on McCree’s face, which is not pointed towards him, and presses his lips gently against the base of his cock. He uses one of his hands to keep his cock pointed skyward while the other cups his balls and rolls them in his palm. Gingerly, he kisses up his shaft, lips light and sweet against his cock. The heated flesh and the slightly chilly barbells are a wonderful combination of sensations. By the time he makes it to the head, McCree is barely throbbing in his grip.

But he’s still not reacting in any other way than what he’s already shown.

 _More then_.

Hanzo presses a kiss to the tip of McCree’s cock, tongue darting out to lick at his slit and taste the slightly bitter tang of just the smallest amount of pre that’s leaked out of him, before he pulls away from him. Just the taste has his veins buzzing with excitement. Even if Jesse isn’t going to react to him, he’d have his fun and take his fill of him on his own until he finally got off the phone. Hanzo finds himself leaning forward and pressing his tongue against his shaft more readily than he thought he would.

With the tip of his tongue, he traces one of his veins from base to tip, before dipping back down again and following the path of another. The musky smell of him fills his nostrils, making his head spin. _Gods_ , he wants more. Wants to take the whole of him, anywhere he can. Just the thought has his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He needs it _now_. Hanzo points McCree’s cock towards him and, with a quick swipe of his tongue along his lips and a sharp inhale of breath, swallows down the tip of his target’s thick cock.

Far beyond the point of caring if Jesse reacts or not, Hanzo puts his whole being into sucking on the absolutely wonderful prick he’s gotten his hands on. At first, he simply laves his tongue around the tip, sampling the steady trickle of precome that flows from McCree’s slit, but it quickly proves to not be enough. _More_ , his mind screams at him, _take more, take it all_.

Who is he to deny himself what he wants and so readily has in front of him?

Hanzo pinches his thumb in his fist and sucks in in a lungful of air through his nostrils before he pushes himself down the entirety of McCree’s cock. Every inch sinks into his mouth, thick and heavy and _throbbing_ on his tongue. Hanzo’s eyes flutter shut at the heady taste and feel of him in his mouth– those piercings catch just slightly on his lips before slipping in and rolling against his tongue. And then… oh, _then_ he presses even further down, feeling his airways blocked as McCree’s cock slides into the tight clutch of his throat.

And just like that, he finds himself with Jesse as far into his mouth as he can go, and his nose is pressed against his pubic bone, being tickled by the thicket of dark hair that decorates the base of his cock. McCree twitches and throbs in his throat and Hanzo cannot help but swallow around him, savoring the delicious feeling and the flavor _and_ –

Jesse’s fingers tighten in his hair.

“ _Mierda_ – _hijo tu chingada madre_ ,” he swears under his breath above him, voice barely a strained whisper. After that, there’s dead silence. Not even any feedback from the phone. Someone could drop a pin in that room and Hanzo, McCree, and his father would be able to hear it. Pride has his lips turning up at the corners. _There’s_ that reaction he’s been looking for this whole time. And he got him to be so _vocal_ too. There must be another few Spanish curses that he can wring out of him, right?

Just to test the waters, Hanzo swallows around Jesse once more, feeling lightheaded and smug, and hears him choke on a breath above him.

“ _¡Que padre!_ ” McCree exclaims before that hand in his hair pulls him roughly off of his cock. _Aw_ . And it was just getting good. No matter– he needs air again anyways. Hanzo’s throat feels a bit abused from the treatment but _Gods_ if he isn’t looking forward to getting back on that cock. Having him buried so deep in his mouth– in his throat– has his jaw feeling pleasantly sore and arousal surging sweet and heavy through his veins. The smirk on his face is smug and self-satisfied. He makes sure to direct it up at McCree, who is looking at him with such a curiously intense expression.

_Oh?_

The second exclamation apparently spurs a reaction out of Jesse’s father, who he can hear distantly coming out of the phone speakers. His target sucks in a bracing breath and turns his head away from Hanzo, eyes pointed towards the window in front of him once more. Hanzo carefully lays his head on Jesse’s thigh, watching him and waiting to see how he would possibly explain what just happened to his father. Smugness rolls off of him in practically tangible waves, although he still notices one thing.

Those fingers of his are still tight in his hair.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry pops, just stubbed my toe. Y’know how clumsy I can get.” There’s a pause and _that’s_ when McCree uses his grip on Hanzo’s hair to yank him back the slightest bit, enough to force him to keep his head tilted up and his view on his face. Jesse’s eyes lock onto his, dark with lust and half-lidded.

“Usually I don’ curse like that with you on the phone, _papá_ , but I guess I just,” he pauses for a moment and Hanzo knows by the spark in those eyes that those last few words are directed towards _him_ , “kept my _mouth open_.”

 _Oh_.

Hanzo sucks in a bracing breath, arousal crackling up his spine like a livewire. That’s not a suggestion. That’s a _command_ . One that he finds himself obeying immediately, jaw dropping open and wide while he braces both hands on McCree’s muscular thighs. His targets quirks a smile at him (that absolutely does _not_ make molten heat pool in his midsection more insistently than before) and uses that tight grip on his hair to guide him back to his cock. Mouth open as wide as it is, it only takes a slight push for McCree to sink the tip back into the wet heat of his mouth.

And, just like that, Jesse slips back into easy Spanish. Only now, he uses his grip on Hanzo’s hair to guide him down his cock, burying just the first few inches inside of his mouth before he pulls him off of him. For a few minutes, that’s all he does. It’s just enough for a dull, pleasurable ache to settle in Hanzo’s jaw, and to make his beard and chin a mess of spit and precome, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He finds himself laving his tongue all along whatever bit of cock he has in his mouth, delighting in the musky scent and flavor.

Just as he’s getting acclimated to the easy back and forth slide of Jesse’s cock along his tongue, the man decides to throw him for a loop. Instead of guiding him down a few inches, he suddenly pulls Hanzo down the full way, cutting off his air and burying himself in his mouth and throat. _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself as his eyes roll back a bit. Even caught unawares, he still swallows eagerly around him and only gags the slightest bit.

McCree gives him a moment to breathe when he pulls him off his cock this time around, which Hanzo does gratefully, before he pushes in again and sinks in until his target’s balls touch his chin and his nose presses against his pubic bone. Heavy and hot and throbbing and _Gods_ , he just uses Hanzo. Pulls him off and pushes him down by the grip on his hair and he just goes along with it. _Happily_ , a part of him supplies and his eyes flutter because _yes_ , he loves the feeling, the flavor, the mere presence of his thick cock in his mouth. He loses himself to the rhythm McCree sets for the two of them and he’s sure he’s being far too loud, swallowing and sucking him down greedily. And this whole time, Hanzo’s cock sits throbbing and aching for some sort of pressure in his slacks.

“ _Sí sí_ . Bye, dad, I’ll see you soon. Mmhm. Love you too,” he hears McCree say calmly, even though he’s still fucking Hanzo’s face vigorously. His voice is distant, muted over the very _loud_ sounds coming out of him. Muffled moans and the squelching of spit leaking out of his mouth with every rough thrust into him are almost all he can hear. And he can feel McCree throbbing more intensely against his tongue, in his throat– it’s only a matter of time before he unleashes his load and Hanzo gets to swallow down every bit–

Jesse pulls Hanzo off his cock and releases his hair, leaving him sitting there on his knees, blinking owlishly, wondering why his target had suddenly decided to stop when he’s _so close_.

He sees McCree toss the phone behind him, hears the soft _thump_ of it hitting the bedspread, and then his hand is back in Hanzo’s hair, stroking his sore scalp in careful, easy movements. Sighing happily and ignoring his disappointment at not being able to feel McCree come down his throat, he turns his head up to watch his target, who is now giving him his full attention. Which is really all he’s wanted _this whole time_.

Well, better late than never.

His jaw aches and his throat feels raw and his scalp burns from being used so roughly. _God_ , it’s so good– and McCree is looking at him with such an intense _heat_ in those brilliant amber eyes of his. It burns him from the inside out, especially when his target opens his mouth and lets fiery words fall from his lips in that decadent voice of his. One that has the slightest growl to it, a snarl that fills Hanzo’s veins with equal parts ice and fire.

“Yer a fuckin’ brat,” he growls down at him, although his fingers remain gentle against his scalp, “Y’know that, right? Tryna trip me up like that while I was on the phone with my _dad_ .” He doesn’t yank his hair this time but he does pull him forward by the back of his head until his head is pressed against the curve where his thigh meets pelvis, tilted so his lips are mere inches from his spit-slick cock. So close, close enough for him to lean forward and _kiss_ –

“Should teach you a lesson,” McCree snarls and Hanzo’s breath quickens in his chest at the mere thought, “teach you how to be patient, ya filthy lil’ minx. Wouldja like that?”

Hanzo keeps his eyes on McCree and leans in, lips against the side of his cock. Jesse’s dark look doesn’t lighten at all, even as he kisses sloppily up his length. He accepts the fat head of him into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it like an ice lolly. The minute he pops off of him, the bitter taste of precome sitting heavy on his tongue, he smirks at McCree, a single brow cocked. A challenge for the man who is still scratching ever so sweetly at his scalp, although his expression is dripping with lust– a contrast that he enjoys quite a bit.

“If you think you can, Sir,” Hanzo purrs in a saccharine tone up at Jesse. _That_ gets that expression of his to break. His impassive, commanding look shatters with his eyes widening and his mouth falling open. His eyebrows shoot up towards his slicked back hairline while his fingers suddenly halt in their stroking of his hair. Hanzo quietly delights in it all with a self-satisfied smile plastered across his face.

McCree’s ensuing groan is long, low, bone-deep. His hand drops from Hanzo’s head to his shoulder, which he grips tightly and pulls at. “Up,” he grunts at him, voice low and gravelly, “On yer feet.” Knees protesting the movement, Hanzo rises off the ground with a hand on McCree’s arm helping him. The minute he’s steady on his feet, McCree’s hands are on him, pulling at the buttons on his shirt like a man possessed.

“Safeword?” He asks in a strained voice, fingers plucking at the last few buttons on Hanzo’s shirt.

“Joker.”

“Poker-themed, I like it,” Jesse comments, sliding his hands along his thick pectorals and pushing his button-down to either side. Hanzo helps him by tugging at the ends of his sleeves and shimmying out of the garment. His target lets out another guttural groan at the sight of his tattoo and the silver barbells punched through each of his nipples. That’s the reaction he likes to get out of his partners, and McCree doesn’t disappoint. His hands cup Hanzo’s pecs, thumbs rubbing circles around each sensitive nub.

“Like gettin’ tied up?” He asks, one hand dropping down from his chest to his pants. Jesse pulls at the belt there, trying his damndest to undo the buckle one-handed. Hanzo takes pity on him and how frustrated he sounds by swatting his hands away and undoing the buckle easily. He even pulls the black leather through each of the belt loops and tosses it to the side, making McCree’s job much easier when he reaches back to undo the button and zip on his slacks.

“ _Love_ it,” Hanzo answers finally, voice breathy and a bit raspy. Jesse groans for the third time, head falling forward to rest on his bare shoulder. _Hah_ , he might’ve broken him. Or, at least he thinks has until his target’s hand squeezes one of his pecs while he presses heated, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of Hanzo’s shoulder.

“Yer gonna kill me,” McCree mutters against his skin. He can’t help but bark out a laugh at that, though it quickly devolves into a breathy moan when his target sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. The bite only lasts a moment before he pulls away and straightens up. Jesse’s eyes– those dark and beautiful and lust-filled eyes– sear into him even as his hands drop from Hanzo’s body, leaving the places he was touching cold and aching to be fondled once more. Every nerve in his body sings for _more_ , which his target doesn’t give him, unfortunately.

McCree takes a step away from Hanzo and draws a circle in the air with his finger. “Turn around, take yer pants off, and lean against the window with arms behind yer back. Got it?”

 _Fuck_ , he loves how commanding he sounds. That whiskey-smooth timbre washes over him, pinpricks of pleasure erupting underneath his skin. Equal parts ice and fire sit heavy in the pit of his stomach. McCree makes the same gesture, his bisected brow arching in question– asking silently why he hasn’t turned around yet. Hanzo nods, smirk still on his lips, and purrs out a sweet, “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t miss the way Jesse’s teeth sink into his lower lip as he turns to face the window.

Just as he was told, Hanzo shucks his pants and underwear before tossing both to the side. Standing there nude in the slightly chilly room isn’t any different than how he sleeps at home. Then again, he doesn’t have an incredibly attractive poker player in his room at home. _But you could_ , a part of him so readily supplies. As quickly as the thought crops up, he quashes it. No need to entertain that– this is probably going to be casual sex, nothing less and nothing more. Even if it ends up being the most mind-blowing sex of his life, it wouldn’t do to toy with hopeful thoughts of McCree wanting more once this is all over with.

Hanzo shoves those thoughts to a very dark corner of his mind, where they’ll stay for the rest of the night. With a long exhaled breath, he crosses his arms behind his back and moves to lean against the panoramic window. _Gods_ , they are very high up. Likely close to the top floor. The Strip is alive out there, neon signs and billboards displaying the shows and concerts of the evening strewn across a miles-long stretch. Lights as far as the eye can see, bright surroundin them but dimmer the farther away from the Strip they get. Tourists mingle on the streets below, moseying down Las Vegas Boulevard with pockets full of cash they’d end up blowing by the end of the night. Considering how high up they are, there’s no way anyone could see them unless they had a pair of binoculars and were _trying_ to see them. And yet, knowing he’s exposed up here, visible to any prying eyes, sends an electrifying thrill through him. There’s that exhibitionist kink of his, rearing its head again. His skin tingles, heartbeat quickens, and hearing McCree rustling around in drawers behind him has anticipation surging like ice through his veins. Excitedly, he leans his head and shoulders against the cold window with his arms crossed behind his back, just as Jesse had told him to, and tries to wait as patiently as possible for him to come back.

Drawers open and close while McCree walks around the room, quiet as a mouse save for his footfalls. Every sound he makes has Hanzo tensing up the slightest bit. His silence has him wondering what he’s thinking– is he planning out how the rest of the night will go? What’s he going to tie him up with? Does he just have handcuffs in a drawer around here? If he does, how often _does_ he bring strangers back to his hotel room? Okay, no, off that train of thought. Just _thinking_ about someone else kissing McCree has his blood boiling with jealousy that he has no right to. He quickly veers off into more familiar territory, fantasizing about what his target will do once he finishes getting what he needs.

By the time Jesse’s footsteps finally get closer, Hanzo is overly antsy, shifting from foot to foot in place. Whatever thoughts he’s buried himself in are gone the minute McCree slides one of his hot, heavy hands against the back of his neck and drags it down the curve of his back. A trail of fire follows the heat of his hand, skin tingling at his very touch.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sighs, breath fogging up the glass that he has his head pressed against. Jesse’s low chuckle behind him has arousal spreading its tendrils out from his midsection. His cock– which, to be honest, has been half-hard ever since they were downstairs, and has only gotten harder ever since– twitches eagerly at the contact. Especially as McCree slides a piece of silk fabric under his wrists.

“Tell me if it’s too tight,” Jesse whispers while he winds the strip around both arms. Within moments, he’s tied his hands together with a tight knot. _Obviously not the first time he’s done this_ , he thinks to himself with only a _hint_ of bitterness. Experimentally, Hanzo tugs at his binds, finding them to be quite strong. And the material is so _soft_ too– it’s unlike the usual ropes he’s tied up with when he does this song and dance (although it’s been quite some time since the last scene where he’s been the one _being_ tied). It’s nice.

 _Very_ _nice_ , he amends when Jesse hooks two fingers under the silk and uses it to pull him back enough for him to leisurely grind his now-clothed cock against his bare backside. From the feel of it, he’s only wearing his soft cotton boxers, a distinct lack of those pressed slacks evident in how soft the fabric is. Sighing happily, Hanzo pushes back against him, delighting in the soft groan that he manages to get from McCree at the movement. The hand that was on his binds moves to grip his hip lightly, letting Hanzo push his hips back all he likes– which he does, eagerly.

“Alright, Hanzo,” Jesse says, calm as can be, even as he grinds insistently against the meat of his ass, “Here’s what’s gonna happen. ‘M gonna finger ya open, nice and good. Then I’m gonna slide on in. Getcha real deep–”

 _Oh, fuck yes_.

“–stir ya up and fuck ya ‘till you make a right mess of that window yer leanin’ on.” Hanzo’s head spins at the thoughts alone, his teeth digging into his lower lip. He hears more than feels McCree shift behind him and then there’s the press of his bare chest against his back, a pair of lips mere centimeters away from his ear. Whatever breath he had catches in his throat as his target’s teeth drag along the shell of his ear, arousal shooting through him like a lightning bolt. That lightning only grows in voltage as Jesse opens his mouth to speak, that sonorous voice of his washing over the sensitive skin behind his ear and striking him _deep_.

“An’ only when yer pretty lil’ hole is leakin’ my come will I untie you. Got it, darlin’?”

 _Gods above and below, Hanzo Shimada is ruined_.

“Yes, sir,” he breathes out, voice entirely more strained than it has any right to be. Christ, he’s pretty sure he’s dying. Not a single partner he’s ever had has succeeded in making his knees _this_ weak with just words alone. Jesse sounds like a damn _pro_ – he wouldn’t put it past him to be one, actually. Someone this attractive was just born to do porn and he’s on a mental tangent again. Back to the moment, where McCree hums happily at his response and presses a gentle kiss to that overly sensitive patch of skin.

“Good boy,” Jesse praises him and Hanzo feels his cock _throb_ where it hangs, hard and aching between his thighs. And just like that, he’s straightened up, and his back is suddenly _very_ cold without him. Not that McCree lets him think he’s gone far– he’s still pressed snugly against his ass, hips moving in slow circles as he continues to grind into him.

The sound of a bottle being uncapped is right behind him, then a few moments of silence save for a soft, slick sound that is likely McCree spreading lube on his fingers. Hanzo almost lets out a cry of disappointment when his target’s heat abandons him as he takes a step back but Jesse’s hands are on him again in a moment. One finds its home on his hip while the other dips between his spread legs.

McCree’s hand goes further than where his hole is, fingers pressing against the sensitive skin on the underside of his balls. Hanzo exhales deeply as those digits drag along his taint, only pausing when they hit the hoop he has pierced through the thin skin of his perineum. “Oh my,” he hears Jesse whisper behind him as he plays with the piercing, each slide of it below the sensitive skin igniting fire in his veins, “Wasn’t expectin’ that.” He _burns_ , like he’s been doing all night, and McCree shows no mercy, fingers tugging gently on the hoop. Just when Hanzo is sure his target will reduce him to nothing but ash, Jesse lets go of his piercing. Not that he doesn’t leave him with some parting words, even as his hand starts towards his hole once more.

“I’m gonna have fun playin’ with that one next time, sugar. Gon’ see if I can get you to come with just that and the pretty piercings y’got in yer nipples,” McCree tells him as casually as if he was telling Hanzo about the weather outside. None of his words really matter to him, anyways– except for two.

 _Next time_.

The hope that crops up in his chest is bright and insistent, his heart singing at the thought of having McCree again, and again, and _again_. Maybe he’d stay with him here, in Vegas, or he’d come to visit from wherever he came from, and they’d go on dates together, hand in hand. He’s dizzy just thinking about it. Hanzo has barely even a moment to entertain those fantasies for long as Jesse uses his clean hand to spread one of his cheeks and expose him to the open air of his hotel room.

McCree circles his hole with a slick finger, teasing the sensitive rim with the digits of his clean hand digging into the meat of his ass. Every rotation of that damned fingertip has his already achingly hard cock twitching. The ache of being bound is starting to settle in his shoulder blades from being contorted into a position he shouldn’t be in for long, and it’s _so good_ . He flexes his fingers to keep feeling in them and wiggles his hips in what he hopes is a tantalizing manner. Trying to get his target to stop teasing him with the promise of penetration and _just–_

Jesse presses his thick finger against his hole and sinks it in, slowly, until the entire length of it is inside Hanzo. And though the digit itself is bigger (only slightly) than his own, the stretch is nothing that he cannot take. McCree seems to know that too, as he pulls his finger out and presses two in in its place without hesitation.

Now _that_ is much more of a stretch. “A lil’ tight, ain’t’cha,” Jesse comments, wiggling his digits around inside of him and spreading him wider. Hanzo moans softly, eyes fluttering shut as he enjoys the press of those slick, heated fingers against his inner walls. His cock has started dripping precome now that he’s gotten what he’s so desperately wanted for _hours_ now. McCree scissors both digits inside him, opening him up bit by bit until the stretch no longer burns. Pleasure overtakes the pain (not that he dislikes the latter) and, soon, he’s panting harshly against the glass and balling his fists. Every thrust of his fingers is a stab of pleasure in his gut and another drop of pre dribbling out of him. He can’t imagine what the carpet underneath him must look like right now.

The third finger Jesse presses in seems like too much– he’s taken people before with just two fingers of prep– but the lingering ache in his jaw serves as a reminder of exactly how thick Jesse McCree is. Three fingers is fine. More than fine when they press deep and crook upwards, searching for a spot Hanzo knows all too well. Hanzo’s breathing quickens at the questing digits, his head spinning, and McCree only hums in acknowledgement behind him.

“Tell me when I find it,” he purrs, thrusting those three fingers of his so _deep_. Hanzo’s eyes unfocus at the sudden jolt of pleasure that skitters up his spine. The bastard only has to press into him a few more times before his digits strike that heavenly spot inside of him. The moan that’s punched out of him at the sudden thrust against his prostate is the loudest sound he’s made that evening– and McCree notices.

“Was that it?” He asks, even as his fingers press more insistently at his prostate. _Fuck_ , he knows what he’s doing, what he’s messing with, and he still has the audacity to _ask that?!_ The pleasure coursing through him takes his breath away and settles hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach, like molten lava. He’s so caught up in the feeling that he forgets to respond to McCree until he asks him again, in a more demanding tone. “Was that it, Hanzo?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes out through the moans he can’t help but make, voice strained and airy, “ _yes_ , Gods _, yes_ , that’s it…”

“Yes…?” Jesse asks, dragging the word out in question while he spreads his fingers as far as they can go, opening Hanzo up _much_ wider than before. The stretch burns in the best way. His shoulders tense, deepening the ache he feels in them, and fingers scrabble to grab onto something– _anything_ – to ground himself. Hanzo sucks in a stuttering breath as he scrambles to correct himself.

“ _Yes,_ **_sir!_ ** ”

“Good boy.”

And just like that, McCree is slipping his fingers out, though he clenches around them in hopes of keeping them in longer. The chuckle he gets in return is like a balm on his overheated skin, washing over him in a wave that does nothing to cool him. There’s the distinct sound of fabric against skin and a gust of cold air that he assumes is McCree taking off his boxers and tossing them to the side, before he catches the _click_ of a bottle being opened once more. Hanzo’s breathing is labored and the window he’s got his cheek pressed against is fogged up with the heat of both his face and his breath. Impatiently, despite hearing his target slicking himself up behind him, he pushes his hips back as best he can, trying desperately to get McCree to just _do it already_.

“Easy now, baby,” Jesse coos at him, his clean hand rubbing gentle patterns into his skin, “gimme a second an’ you won’t be so empty anymore, alright? Don’t be a brat now.” He punctuates his sentence with a sharp smack against his cheeks, playful in nature but the sudden flash of pain has pleasure crackling through Hanzo.

“ _Gods_ ,” he breathes out involuntarily, “fuck me, please, sir.”

McCree chuckles at him, grabbing one of his cheeks and pulling the thick globe to the side, exposing his stretched and slick hole to the air of the hotel room once again. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

His heart stops the minute he feels the fat head of Jesse’s cock press against his rim. _Gods_ , big, so big, so fucking _big_ . Hanzo sucks in a breath that he holds, unable to focus on anything else except for the way McCree is pushing gently at his entrance. Is it even possible for something that large to fit inside of him? It’s not his first time–  not by a long shot– but then again, he’s only ever been with men of mainly average size. If it hurts, he always has his safeword, and McCree would stop immediately and _fuck–_

Jesse sinks the head into him, stretching him wide. Wider than he’s ever been stretched before and, _Gods,_ does it burn… but it’s nothing that he can’t handle. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of pain. In fact, he welcomes it, because with the stretch is the promise of more pleasure that he already feels coursing through his veins. Slow and bracing, he exhales through his nose and focuses intently on how slow and gentle McCree is as he pushes into him.

The slide is smooth until the first piercing catches on his rim, though just the feel of it is incredibly erotic. Even more so when Jesse presses more insistently against him. With just a bit of finessing, he slides the first barbell into him and Hanzo keens loudly at the feeling of it rolling against his inner walls. _Fuck_ , it’s so _good_ – and McCree still has three more sets of those delectable bumps on his cock.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Hanzo mutters under his breath, a rapid-fire mantra that spills from his lips unbidden while Jesse sinks the rest of the way into him. Every piercing that pushes into him strokes his sensitive walls so well, every inch of his thick prick stretches him wider than he’s ever been stretched before– and Hanzo loves every second of it. By the time McCree’s hips are flush against his, he’s wound tight enough that a _breeze_ in the right direction could snap the coil in his midsection.

“One moment, please,” he asks, shifting in place and gasping when he feels the ridged head of his cock pulling at his insides at the movement, “I am not sure I will– _fuck–_ last long, if I am being honest.”

McCree laughs at that, sounding just as strained as Hanzo is, and rubs soothing circles into the skin of his lower back. “Yeah, me too. ‘S alright though,” he pauses and leans forward, pressing himself against Hanzo’s back and getting _impossibly_ deeper. They groan in unison while Jesse presses heated kisses to the meat of his tattooed shoulder, up and up and _up_ until he’s right next to his ear. Softly, he speaks again, hot breath washing over Hanzo’s ear and sending tingles down his spine. “I’m all in, darlin’.”

He sucks in a desperate breath, head spinning, and goes to say something back to McCree when it hits him.

“Wait. Did you just… make a poker joke… about your dick inside me?”

Hanzo glances over his shoulder as best he can and catches sight of his target’s own shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter. His lips part in a smile against his skin despite how he tries to fight it. It’s only moments before he breaks entirely, whole body trembling because of how strongly he’s laughing. Jesse’s eyes crinkle with mirth while he grins at him, that expression catching Hanzo off guard as warmth unrelated to arousal or desire surges through him. It’s infectious– he finds himself giggling in kind quickly. At first, it’s in disbelief, but then it quickly grows until the two of them are standing there, naked, with McCree balls deep inside of him, laughing loudly at a silly pun he made.

Gods, he could… really get used to this.

McCree is the one to pull him from his case of the chuckles. While Hanzo is busy laughing at not only the pun but the way Jesse reacted, said man slides his hips back until just the head is left inside of him before slamming his hips back forward. Whatever laughter he had stuck in his throat dies the minute McCree does that, replaced by a long, _loud_ moan that he swears the people two rooms down the hall can hear.

“That good?” Jesse asks, winding his hips in a slow, lazy circle that Hanzo cries out at. Not trusting his voice, he nods his head as best he can. That isn’t good enough for his target, it seems, as the man rocks his hips back and thrusts back into him, hard and fast like before. McCree’s clean hand slides up the curve of his back, the back of his neck, and into his hair before he winds his fingers through the messy strands (there’s no way his hair even _resembles_ a ponytail at this point) and yanks him backward. The movement makes the ache in his shoulders more prominent– something that Hanzo gasps audibly at– though he has barely a moment to think about it before Jesse’s lips are pressed to the shell of his ear as they’ve been many times this night.

“I reckon I asked you a question, Hanzo,” Jesse growls against his skin as he thrusts shallowly into him, grinding the his thick head against his prostate, “And I’m expectin’ an answer. Now, does that.”

He slides his hips back until the ridged head of his cock tugs at the rim, before he plunges back into him, ripping a strangled moan from his throat.

“Feel.”

 _Another_ deep thrust and another noise punched out of him that he wouldn’t even attempt to stifle.

“Good?”

And yet another, only this time he doesn’t pull back, and just grinds against that delicious spot inside of him, sending spikes of pleasure through him that he groans deeply at. It takes a few moments for him to catch his breath enough to actually voice a response, during which McCree makes it a point to suck a hickey into the junction of his neck and shoulder (he tries valiantly to ignore the surge of possessive pride that swells within him at the thought of being marked by Jesse like this).

“Y-Yes, yes sir, it does,” Hanzo moans out between hiccupy breaths. McCree hums happily in response and lets go of his hair, giving him blessed relief from the ache in his scalp. The hand that was in his hair goes to fondle his chest instead, fingers playing with one of his nipples while he rolls his hips in languid thrusts.

Hanzo throws his head back and rests it on his target’s shoulder as best he can without stretching his arms too far. Jesse hooks his chin over his shoulder in kind, gazing hungrily down at the swell of his chest. He knows what he sees too– it’s both a blessing and a curse that his body belies his arousal with a blush extending from the crest of his cheeks down to his pectorals. Lucky for him, it seems as though McCree is nothing if not absolutely fascinated by the color dusted across his skin.

“Oh baby,” Jesse croons, his hips still rocking against him insistently, “I’m sure yer gettin’ ready to pop. Hell, I am too– we’ve been messin’ around for a few hours now. So,” he pulls back from him and presses his head back against the window, which is a mess where his face had been, “Why don’t we get to the good stuff?”

Hanzo groans loudly and manages to say, “Yes, please,” before McCree settles one hand on his hip and the other grabs his bound hands as best it can. He savors the slow slide out and the piercings that roll against his insides until only the tip is left in and, from there, Jesse is nothing but _brutal_.

His punishing pace is accented by the sound of skin on skin and McCree’s grunts. Every plunge into him tightens the already ridiculously wound up coil inside of him and floods every one of his senses with pleasure and heat, _so much heat_ . Hanzo can hear his heart hammering in his ears and the constant mantra of his _name_ spilling from Jesse’s lips. The hand on his hip slides around to wrap around his steadily leaking cock. It only takes another few rough thrusts forward, and a long-suffering moan of his name, and two quick pumps of McCree’s fist and the coil _snaps_.

Hanzo’s orgasm hits him like a pound of bricks. It knocks the air out of him with the intensity of it and he’s pretty sure he would’ve fallen to the ground if not for Jesse holding him up. Every sense of his fizzles out with pleasure surging through and exploding out of him. His fingers and toes curl and every muscle in his body seizes up just as his eyelids flutter closed– not that he could see anything anyways, what with how Jesse has basically turned off every sense of his. Dimly and despite that, he’s aware of the sound of his come hitting the window by the wet noises he can hear over the roar in his ears.

Or maybe that’s the sound of McCree’s cock still roughly fucking into him despite how tight he’s become? Not that his thrusts last much longer– it’s only three more plunges forward into his tight heat until Jesse buries himself inside him as deep as he can go before he feels his cock twitching with the tell-tale sign of orgasm.

 _Gods_ , he loves it. He can feel the surge of heat inside of him, how he seems to get _impossibly_ fuller, and the dragged out groan of his name that McCree practically shouts at the ceiling. If the people two doors down could’ve heard him earlier, the entire _floor_ can hear McCree now with how loud that particular noise was. Not that he really cares– they can all be jealous of how hard he made this man come.

There’s a few long, silent moments between the two of them before Jesse gingerly pulls his hips back and slips out of him. “God, that’s a pretty sight,” he hears him mumble under his breath while he tries in vain to clench around the come that is threatening to spill out of him. Part of him wants to say, ‘take a picture, it will last longer,’ while another suggests, ‘you may see it more than once.’ Neither wins out as he forces himself to stay quiet instead. There’s no need to ruin a damn near _perfect_ night.

McCree is kind to him in the aftermath. He quickly undoes his binds and goes to grab a damp towel the minute Hanzo’s arms are free. Standing there, he watches Jesse walk away with a mixture of pride and sadness. Despite how fast this night went, he can’t help but want to do this again. Perhaps not in a hotel room but at his own house. And maybe with dinner beforehand. But he shakes the thoughts from his head and busies himself with massaging feeling back into his red wrists. He aches all over, he realizes, now that there’s not any adrenaline or arousal dampening the feeling. Christ, his shoulders are going to be so sore tomorrow. Not to mention his ass– there will _never_ be anyone else that can fill him up as well as McCree can.

Jesse comes back to him with a washcloth, his own skin damp from wiping himself down. Now that he’s not facing the window, Hanzo lets his eyes roam over the entirety of his target’s bare body. He’s _very_ muscular. And hairy, which he guessed at the minute he saw him, but it’s incredibly arousing to see that his assumption is correct. His hair, which had been slicked back and tidy when they first started this, is a mess now, much like his own is. Nervously, he combs his fingers through his hair, trying to compose how he looks as best he can. Even though he won’t see him after tomorrow morning, there’s no harm in trying to impress him now.

“Hey, Hanzo,” he says, a smile on his face that masks an emotion that Hanzo can only guess at, “mind if I get you cleaned up?”

“Not at all.”

McCree’s smile widens into a grin as he steps forward and starts swiping the damp cloth along his body. He cleans off the thin sheen of sweat on his arms and chest, making sure to pay special attention to his decorated arm, and then quickly rubs at the spit and precome that have dried in his beard. Hanzo sticks his tongue out at him, which Jesse just playfully rolls his eyes at before he drops to his knees to give his cock and legs the same treatment.

“Turn around for me, sugar?”

Hanzo does so just as eagerly as he had earlier, only lust isn’t powering his movements this time around. McCree cleans up his calves and thighs quickly but takes his time cleaning up the mess of his inner thighs and his hole. Hanzo swears he hears him breathe harsher against his skin when the towel swipes over his taint and the hoop he has there. And he _knows_ he heard it when Jesse chokes out, “it’s _blue_.”

“My jewelry? Yes, it is– my favorite color, actually.”

“...noted…”

His heart stops in his chest.

_What does that mean?_

He doesn’t get a chance to ask. Jesse stands and cleans up his back, keeping his movements gentle against his shoulders, which he’s more than thankful for. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth to the side and presses himself against Hanzo’s back in a long, hard line. Thankfully, that’s the only thing hard about him, as his cock is flaccid. Hanzo knows there’s no way he can go another round right now. McCree doesn’t do anything presumptuous, only kisses at the mark he left on Hanzo’s neck and down the curve of his shoulder.

“I’ll give you a massage in the mornin’, okay? I know yer gonna be sore.”

Hanzo blinks owlishly. He didn’t think he’d get the best sex of his life _and_ the most attentive partner he’s ever had, but apparently the Gods have blessed him with just that. It’s saddening to know this will be the only night they have together. But for now… he’ll enjoy it.

“Thank you, you are too kind, Jesse.” He tells him while turning to face him. McCree’s smile is soft, softer than any look he’s had on his face tonight, and Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. His target takes his hand and gives it a squeeze as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Hanzo’s hand could’ve very well been his heart, since that squeezes under Jesse’s grip in kind. He stares at his target as he’s lead to the bed, which is pristine save for a few wrinkles here and there from where he’d pushed McCree onto it earlier.

“Nah, it ain’t nothin’. Just like makin’ sure my partner is comfortable, is all.” Jesse pulls back the covers, climbs on the bed, and pats the space next to him while expectantly staring at Hanzo. Barely a second passes before that look falls and _nervousness_ replaces it. What in the Hell does he have to be nervous about?

“Sorry, sorry– um, do you… like to cuddle after sex? Uh,” McCree pauses, face flushing the most brilliant ruddy red as he starts to stammer and ramble, “Cuz I really like it. B-But we don’t have to. We can just sleep– or, uh, if you got a room here I can walk you to it? Fuck, um, sorry that was kinda– I just figured, you, uh–”

“Jesse,” Hanzo cuts him off, taking pity on his nervous (and, admittedly, _adorable_ ) display, “Yes, I do. Cuddle after sex, that is. And I’d love to. Besides…” He climbs into bed with him and lays down next to him, having to physically suppress the happy sigh that threatens to bubble out of him when McCree wraps an arm around his shoulders immediately, “You promised me a massage in the morning and I intend to collect.”

“Shoulda known,” Jesse barks out a laugh and shakes his head, tracing nonsense patterns into his skin, “It’s always the magic hands that get people.”

Speaking of ‘magic hands’... Hanzo draws similar shapes into McCree’s chest, swirling the hair around with his fingertip while he tries to ask his question with as much nonchalance as possible. “Pardon me, Jesse, but on the subject of ‘hands’... how do you _do it?_ ”

“Well, I dunno– was kinda born with them? I know they’re a lil’ big but it ain’t like yers are smaller–”

“What– no, no, that’s not what I mean. I was talking about poker,” Hanzo shakes his head and turns his head to look at a confused but amused McCree, “How do you win so often? Like is there some sort of… trick to it?”

Jesse snorts as if he just asked the silliest question and Hanzo’s heartbeat quickens. Maybe he’ll still be able to figure out how he’s been cheating… Not that he’ll turn McCree in even if he knows. For fuck’s sake, they just slept together. He watches him wet his lips and suck in a breath with his own held in his chest.

And his answer surprises him.

“There ain’t one.”

_…what?_

“I don’t have a trick, I’m just really good at poker,” McCree tells him nonchalantly. He shrugs his shoulders, shifting Hanzo in the process, “ya ain’t the first person to ask, though. I’ve been told I’m luckier than a horseshoe crab.”

What.

Hanzo stares at McCree for long moments, watching, waiting for a punchline or a rescindment of his statement where he admits that he was, in fact, cheating. But it never comes. All he gets is Jesse tilting his head curiously ( _adorably_ ) and quirking a half-smile at him. His moustache wiggles with the movement. That… was cute too. So is the reassuring squeeze he gives his shoulder, and the sweet, expectant look he gives Hanzo while he waits patiently for him to respond.

Fuck, he knows he _should_ be mad, considering that he was called in to deal with someone that isn’t even a cheat, but he can’t find it in himself to get angry at this wonderful man that he’s in bed with. Hell, he’s been nothing but courteous and kind this whole night. Hanzo is sure he can find it in him to forgive Jesse for things he didn’t even know he caused.

“I should’ve known, really,” Hanzo mutters as he rolls onto his stomach and sits up in his former target’s lap. McCree’s head tilts in the other direction, still just as inquisitive, even as his hands find their place on either side of his hips. Hanzo uses his new position to drape his arms over Jesse’s shoulders while he scoots up his muscular thighs. It’s a comfortable position, growing more so when the other man’s arms wrap around his hips to pull him closer until they’re chest to chest.

“Shoulda known what now, darlin’?”

Hanzo laughs quietly, fingers playing with the hair at the base of McCree’s neck. “That you were naturally good at poker, of course.”

“Oh?” Jesse uncurls his arms from around his hips and runs his hands down the back of his thighs instead, using his thumbs to press into the muscle as he goes. He sighs happily at that, already looking forward to the massage that he’ll be getting in the morning, and keeps his eyes on his former target as he continues, “And can I ask why that is, Hanzo Shimada?”

He hums in response, dragging his fingers against McCree’s neck as he shifts to cup his face. Just as his thumbs are rubbing into the meat of his thighs, Hanzo swipes his own along the curve of his jaw, more than enjoying the roughness of his stubble against his skin. Jesse’s eyes are bright, amused, half-lidded and looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters in Vegas– no, in the whole _world_. The hope that flows within him is terribly insistent.

“Well, Jesse McCree, that would be on account of your absurdly good poker face.”

Hanzo delights in the bark of laughter he manages to pull from Jesse with that, warmth surging through him and settling in the pit of his stomach. He likes it even more when McCree wraps his arms around him again and pulls him as close as he can get, their chests swelling with their breathing in tandem.

Like magnets, they’re pulled together, lips meeting soft and sweet in the middle. Hanzo smiles against Jesse’s lips when the man chuckles into the kiss. They part barely an inch for a quick breath and McCree speaks against his mouth when he surges forward to kiss him again. “Can’t wait to take ya to breakfast in the mornin’ too, baby.”

Hanzo sighs in delight. _That_ sounds heavenly, just like how this feels right now. And he could absolutely get used to this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!!! You've made it to The End of this here fic!! This was supposed to be a short pwp for my partner <3 thecatsred buuuut... well, things got out of hand very quickly lol. Please, leave me a comment and kudos if you enjoyed this! And follow me on tumblr for more ovw and mchanzo goodies @ cawaiiey or on twitter if you wanna get a lil more personal @ cawaiiey_ <3 
> 
> Thank you sooooo much for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> EYYYY you made it. Keep an eye out for chapter 2... with the porn ;) 
> 
> come pester me on tumblr at cawaiiey or twitter @cawaiiey_ !


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